


sugar, we're going down swinging

by thundersquall



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Bakery, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Breaking Up & Making Up, First Love, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining, Post-Break Up, Rimming, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 00:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersquall/pseuds/thundersquall
Summary: It's been eight years since Patrick made the hardest decision he's ever had to and left the love of his life; eight years in which he's made sure not to see, hear, or talk about Jonathan Toews, heir to multinational conglomerate, the Toews-Gilbert Group. And even though he's never really gotten over Jonny and the way they broke up, he's settled in his life now; he's an award-winning pastry chef with his own successful bakery, and he's slowly inching his way towards forgetting completely about Jonny.Then when he least expects it, Jonny walks back into his life - with a fiancé - and asks him to design their wedding cake.Despite his misgivings and the reopening of old wounds, Patrick can't help thinking that maybe Jonny's reappearance, after all this time, is a chance for him to finally get closure and be friends with Jonny once more.(But you know what they say about best-laid plans.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally done!! this is the longest fic i've ever written, for any fandom, and i couldn't have done it without the help of many people - so here goes (the longest a/n in the world, probably)!
> 
> huge thanks to:  
> \- **heartstrings** , for the amazing art that accompanies this fic. please head over to her tumblr [here](https://anotherashley.tumblr.com/post/181145272371/sugar-were-going-down-swinging-kanerboo-60k) and [here](https://anotherashley.tumblr.com/post/181129750646/sugar-were-going-down-swinging-kanerboo-for) to leave her some love because she worked incredibly hard on it and the art is gorgeous and i'm in love!  
> but also, a billion thanks to her for all the encouragement and cheerleading and reassurance, for being there for me whenever i was anxious or unsure about the direction of this fic, for brainstorming with me, for spending so much extra time working on betaing this, helping me with proofreading and suggestions, for a ton of other little and not so little things - this fic would NEVER have been done without you, and ilu so much and i can never thank you enough! YOU ARE A CHAMPION <33333  
> \- **tirsh** , for heroically picking up the betaing on this longfic pretty late in the game, doing an incredible and super detailed beta job on it, and working so hard on it right up to the last minute. you're a star and i'm so grateful you offered to help me beta this, because it wouldn't be anywhere as polished without your help!  
> \- **linsky, clayisforgirls, nuuclears, namesintherafters,** for being my perennial cheerleaders and putting up with all my neuroses and listening to me whine about this fic until you're all bored to death. but hey it's done!! and you guys helped so much to get me out of my own head and get me to the finish line, and ilu all for it!  
> \- **celly1995** , for a ton of help and very useful information on the workings of a professional bakery and the processes of cake/pastry designing! i took some liberties with the info she gave me for fic purposes, so any errors in here regarding these are entirely my own.  
> \- **cbhlatebloomer** , for all the chicago information as always!  
> \- everyone in the bbfe discord, for months of fun and conversation, all the sprints and asskicking which pushed me to get this done, and all the support!  
> \- the mods, **fenweak, cuddlefighter** and **namesintherafters** , for a job well done and a super fest! i had so much fun in this <333
> 
>  
> 
> patrick's work and career in this fic is based on real life award-winning pastry chef dominique ansel (who is an absolute genius at pastry art), and many of patrick's pastries that i reference in the fic are real life creations of ansel and other pastry chefs. and the fic title is of course from fall out boy's song of the same name.
> 
> i hope everyone will have as much fun reading this as i had writing it! <3

**Chicago Magazine, January 2018**

 

_Each month, food journalist Michael Nagrant interviews a well-known or emerging Chicago chef, as part of our Chefs Outside The Kitchen series._

_Here, he speaks to pastry chef Patrick Kane. Named the 2017 World's Best Pastry Chef in the World's 50 Best Restaurants awards - the youngest-ever winner of the award - Kane is the chef/owner of his flagship Sugar Kane Bakery in Chicago, as well as Sugar Kane Bakery in New York, and the newly opened Sugar Kane Bakery in San Francisco. Before he struck out on his own, he spent a year in London as the head pastry chef of Alain Ducasse's eponymous restaurant at the Dorchester Hotel, and another two years as the executive pastry chef of Daniel Humm's Eleven Madison Park in Manhattan._

 

 **MN** : How does it feel to be the youngest-ever winner of the World's Best Pastry Chef award?

 **PK:** Well obviously, it's a huge honor - I wasn't expecting it, not with all the truly outstanding people we have in that category - you've got Hironobu Fukano and his work at Pâtisserie Ciel is always excellent, and all the amazing things Cédric Grolet does at Le Meurice, just to name a couple, but it's a great honor. I'm very thankful.

 **MN** : Tell us a little bit about opening your third Sugar Kane Bakery.

 **PK:** My team and I talked a lot about the location before deciding on San Francisco - we knew we wanted a location on the west coast, and we settled on San Francisco because it's one of my favorite cities in California, it's got that nice chill vibe and a lot of great restaurants, a great food culture, lots of up-and-coming chefs - I can't think of a better place to put my bakery.

 **MN** : How different is it, owning and running your own business as compared to before, when you were at Alain Ducasse and Eleven Madison Park?

 **PK:** Obviously it's a whole new different ballgame. Back when I was in London and New York I had the opportunity to learn from chefs like Jean-Philippe Blondet and Daniel Humm. I had fewer responsibilities, in a sense; I had them to lean on. Obviously I have a great team around me now, but in the end I'm making all the decisions on my own, and I'm still learning, except without the guidance of these great chefs. It's been a steep learning curve, but while I'm immensely grateful I had those opportunities at world-class restaurants, I wouldn't trade what I have now for the world.

 **MN** : Lastly, Patrick - what do you do in your free time? Are you single?

 **PK:** I guess I just, maybe this sounds clichéd, but I actually spend most of my free time planning. Just thinking of new things and pastry art I'd like to try, reading up on new techniques. I like hockey, so I watch a lot of that, especially the Blackhawks when the season's ongoing. And yeah, I'm single. I don't think I have that much time at the moment to devote to anything else.

\---

"Uh… this one is a request for a - what the hell, a 'Cronut wall'? At a sweet sixteen party."

"No way. Pass."

"Request to cater a wedding in October, in Martha's Vineyard."

"October… that may be possible. Mark it as a maybe first, and then check our calendar between April till then, and see if we can fit that in."

"Request for an interview with Michigan Avenue Magazine, in March."

"Check up on the interview agenda and then come back to me, but if it works out, sure."

"Another wedding, July."

"No, that's definitely out," Patrick says. "We have two weddings to cater in July in Chicago alone. It's impossible to take on a third."

Ryan clicks his tongue, frown appearing between his brows. "God, there are so many wedding requests," he says, clicking through the emails. It's just past closing and Patrick can see, through the glass panels of his office, the bakery staff still in the kitchen scrubbing up. Ryan's hunched over the desktop computer on his tiny corner desk, checking the bakery's emails, like he does every evening. "Ever since your Chicago Mag interview came out, we've been swamped."

"It's always like that after I give an interview, isn't it?" Patrick says. "It's almost like people forget the bakery exists half the time, and then after an interview, boom - we're inundated with all sorts of catering requests. Like making Cronut walls for teenagers." It makes him want to roll his eyes just thinking about it.

Ryan looks up at him, frowning even harder. "Actually, considering the line-ups starting at five a.m. every morning, and the fact that we're nearly fully booked up for catering the rest of the year, at _all three bakeries_ , I'd say people definitely don't forget Sugar Kane Bakery exists."

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says. He knows what Ryan's going to say next, and as if on cue, Ryan launches right into it.

"I don't know why you're still so - dissatisfied with your success," he says.

"I'm not - I'm not _dissatisfied_ ," Patrick says, a little more sharply than he'd intended. "And - god, drop it, Ryan. I've told you before - just drop it. And there's nothing wrong in having a little ambition, okay. Keep checking the emails."

Ryan rolls his eyes, but thankfully he does as Patrick says. They spend the next couple of minutes with Ryan reading emails out loud, taking notes depending on Patrick's responses ( _no, no, maybe, possible only if I change my flight out of New York that week, look into that Ryan_ ), until Ryan comes to one that makes him snort out loud.

"Wow, this person's asking for you to design a cake - for his wedding in April."

Patrick sighs. "Just reply and tell them we won't be able to. Who even thinks they can get a bakery to design and create a custom wedding cake in less than three months?"

"No, wait - hear me out," Ryan says slowly. "They're saying - wow, okay, they _really_ want you to do the cake, and they'll pay you triple - _triple_ , Pat, what you usually charge. _And_ they'll match whatever they pay you with a donation to the Greater Chicago Food Depository."

"Wait, what?" Patrick says, startled into rising to his feet. "What the hell? Who's this person? Show me."

He makes his way over to Ryan's small, cramped corner desk, covered in papers, and swivels the desktop monitor over so he can read the open email. It's short and to the point but Ryan didn't read it wrong - somehow, this person's desperate enough for a Kane-designed cake that they're willing to pay triple, and include an additional sweetener to Patrick’s main charity partner in Chicago.

It's signed off as _Chris Anderson, personal assistant to Elliot Philip Worthington III_ , and includes a phone number and a request for Patrick to either call or email this Chris guy back so he can set up a meeting with - whoever the guy is that he's the PA for.

"Elliot Philip Worthington the third - that's a hell of a mouthful," Ryan says, blinking. "Definitely sounds like a rich dude. Has a PA and a Roman numeral name."

"Hey, I have a Roman numeral name and a personal assistant - that's _you_ , Ryan Hartman - and I'm not that rich," Patrick says.

"No, if you were, your name would be fucking pretentious, like 'Elliot' instead of something normal like 'Patrick'."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence in my name," Patrick says, but he can't help smiling.

"So - do we want to go for this?" Ryan asks, looking up at Patrick expectantly. His fingers are poised over the keyboard, ready to respond.

Patrick thinks about it, biting his lip. "I don't - I mean, it's not entirely impossible, but if that wedding's in April, it's going to be a real crazy rush for us. I don't want to stretch us too thin and over-commit and then it's the entire team who has to work their asses off to compensate. But - the triple payment thing and the donation - if they're legit - sounds really good, I'm not going to lie."

"Yeah, it sounds good to me too," Ryan says. "Tell you what, boss. Why don't I set the meeting up for you, and you go ahead, and just - see what this guy wants? If they're serious, and it's something fairly simple, and he's not too demanding, then you can take it on. You know everyone will work to get it done."

Patrick's thinking about it when Ryan adds cheekily, "And besides, if fancy pants Elliot really is rich enough to go triple, this means you can give the team an extra bonus." He waggles his eyebrows at Patrick.

"Yeah," Patrick says - that does sound good to him; the team deserves one, especially if they're going to have to get this cake done for April. "Good idea. Go ahead and set it up, Ryan."

Ryan's already typing as he replies. "But honestly, this guy sounds like he's gonna be a dick, with a name like that. Good luck, man."

"Wow, thanks a lot, you're useless," Patrick says, rolling his eyes; but he can't help grinning at Ryan as he goes back to his desk. He's still not done tweaking the recipe for the new souffle he's planning to debut next month, and there are more tests he and his team need to run.

\---

Four days later, Patrick's striding into the lobby of the Palais de Lune to meet Elliot Philip Worthington III and his fiancé, whoever the both of them are. He's never been in this hotel before, but it's fitted out the same way as the rest of the Palais chain - luxurious, elegant, opulent.

He doesn't - he tries to avoid the Palais chain of hotels if possible, but sometimes he just can't. It's stupid, and ridiculous, and petty as hell, but that pain, even dulled by time, still lingers.

He makes his way to the lounge bar, and gives his name to the host there. "Mr. Kane?" the host says. "Yes, Mr. Worthington is already here. This way, please."

To Patrick's surprise, he's led not to a booth or one of the small tables dotted around the bar, but to a little private room at the back. There's only one person in the room, seated at the round table, fingers tapping the table top in a quick, impatient rhythm. Even standing at the door, Patrick can see that his nails are manicured and buffed to a polished shine, the complete antithesis to Patrick's own short, stubby, bitten nails, and the watch peeking out from under his shirt sleeve is a Rolex.

"Mr. Worthington? Mr. Kane is here."

Elliot is - surprisingly young, is Patrick's first thought. It's probably his overblown stuffy name that threw Patrick off, but Elliot is perhaps around his own age, slender in build, with pale blond hair and blue eyes. He flicks his eyes up at Patrick, but doesn't make a move to stand.

"Have a seat, Mr. Kane. George, can you get him a - what do you drink?"

Patrick glances at the table, where Elliot's glass of white wine is sitting. "Whatever Mr. Worthington is having is fine."

The host inclines his head and retreats, shutting the door behind him.

"Okay, well, I'm glad you agreed to meet me," Elliot says, breaking into a smile. He has very full lips, shiny with gloss. "My fiancé kept saying you wouldn't be able to, that you'd be too busy and that I reached out to you too late, but I told him I just _have_ to have you design my cake. A Kane design would literally be the highlight of my wedding."

"Well, it really depends on what you want," Patrick says carefully. "Depending on your requirements, it might be impossible to get the cake done in just under three months. But that's something we'll discuss today, anyway."

Elliot scoffs. "I'll pay you whatever you need to speed this up. If you need more manpower, equipment, whatever - just keep a tally and let me know. My fiancé can pay whatever the cost. I have to have your cake as a centerpiece."

A waiter comes back with Patrick's wine, and Patrick takes a few sips from it, taking the time to absorb and consider what Elliot's just told him.

It's pretty obvious to him straightaway: Elliot's spoiled, used to getting what he wants, assumes that throwing money at the problem is going to make it go away - when Patrick puts that attitude and his stuffy name together, that probably means Elliot's a trust fund baby. Judging by the throwaway manner he spoke about his fiancé paying, that means he's likely to be marrying into money as well. Patrick has a distinct sinking feeling that Elliot's going to be demanding as hell, and not at all easy to deal with.

Plus, he kind of dislikes him on sight. Patrick knows he's not supposed to judge books and people by their covers, but Elliot is - incredibly well put together, finely dressed, wearing expensive accessories, not a hair out of place - and yet Patrick thinks this man is going to be a misery. Good fucking luck to whomever he's marrying.

"How about it?" Elliot says, pressing insistently. "I tell you what. I'm letting you have full creative input. I don't really care how you make the cake, I just need it to look good. And _grand_. I'm holding my wedding in the Grand Ballroom right here in this hotel, and the Palais de Lune is - it's the epitome of luxury hotels in Chicago. And my father's and fiancé's business associates will all be attending. It needs to be perfect, and people will definitely be impressed by a Kane custom cake."

Okay, Patrick was definitely right. Elliot's rich and he's marrying even richer. God, he hates people like these.

"I'm really not sure - I mean, 'looks good' is kind of vague, Mr. Worthington. How can I be sure that what looks good to me would be perfect to you and your fiancé?"

Elliot waves a dismissive hand. "It's simple. I just want tiers, obviously, and the larger the better - seven or eight tiers would be good. I liked the cake Prince William had, that was grand. And I want, I don't know, flowers on it. It just has to be pretty, and classy, and impressive, like Prince William's cake. I'm giving you full creative input, like I said."

Patrick tries again. "Okay, but - it's not that easy constructing a wedding cake, Mr. Worthington. It's not like you shove batter in ovens and then just stack layers one on top of another. Tiered wedding cakes are almost architectural in structure; you have to plan the designs and draw sketches, order supplies, hand-roll the fondant, hand-make every single detail on the cake, from a single flower petal upwards - it's a very labour-intensive process. It takes a lot of _time_."

"And I've already said, I'm willing to pay for whatever you need to make this in time. Manpower, extra - I don't know, equipment, whatever. My fiancé can arrange all that."

Patrick's met a lot of people in his time - lots of wealthy people, demanding clients - and he's managed to perfect an expressionless poker face in most interactions with people. He's seen and heard it all already, especially in weddings, where most couples are stressed and anxious and fixated on perfection, and he's usually good at handling people's demands. But this time - he _knows_ his bewilderment and confusion has to be be showing on his face, but he wouldn't be able to cover it up if he tried.

"Can I - does your fiancé know about this? That you'll want to take on these additional costs? And - where is he anyway? I thought he would be here at our appointment. Maybe we ought to, uh, discuss this with him first."

"Oh, he should be," Elliot says, sighing. "He'll still be joining us - he's in a meeting or something, I believe. But you know, when he's got as many responsibilities as he does - my fiancé owns this hotel and the entire Palais chain, by the way - you get used to this."

Wait, what.

"Wait, what," Patrick says slowly. "Your fiancé - he owns this - "

It takes the slowest five seconds of his life for the information to click into place in his mind. Elliot's fiancé owns the Palais chain. His _fiancé_. The Palais chain.

That means Elliot's fiancé is -

"I'm sorry I'm late, my meeting overran. Hello, Patrick."

And for an instant, Patrick forgets how to breathe. Forgets where he is and the world around him when he looks up and locks eyes with Jonathan Toews.

Jonny's in a fine navy blue suit that fits his body like it was handmade just for him - which it probably was - and Patrick's first thought, before he manages to shut it down and lock it away, is that he looks amazing. But the worst of it is that Jonny looks the same as he always did in the past - tall, serious, breathtakingly handsome. A little different here and there, like the fuzzy edges of a faded photograph when placed against its real life counterpart, but mostly still the Jonny Patrick remembers. The soft roundedness of his youth that he used to carry in his cheeks has been pared down to sharp cheekbones and an angular jawline; there are laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and the moles he used to have at the corner of his mouth are gone now. He must have gotten them removed, because there are tiny pockmarked scars where they used to be.

Patrick remembers kissing those moles, on lazy early mornings tangled together in their bed, soft and sweet, moving up his chin one by one until his lips would catch on to Jonny's mouth.

And really, _that's_ the worst of it. That Patrick still remembers, so clearly. That the sight of Jonny can still make him stop breathing and make his head spin and his heart clench into a tight, tense knot of hurt.

"You know each other?" Elliot's voice drifts towards him, sounding like he's underwater and far away through the pounding in Patrick's ears. Or maybe it's Patrick himself who's buried deep under and can't surface.

Jonny's eyes are still trained on him as he sits down calmly in the seat opposite Patrick, next to Elliot. This, too, is another thing Patrick remembers only too well: the intensity of Jonny's gaze, the way he could make you feel like you were the only person in the world.

"Yeah, we do," Jonny says, and it's the shock of that, Jonny actually _admitting_ it to his fucking fiancé, combined with the way Elliot's looking at them both, eyes narrowed and suspicious, that gets Patrick to pull himself together.

"No," Patrick says, and is relieved to hear his voice sounding relatively steady. "Not really."

Jonny's still looking at him, and Patrick sees a look of surprise flit so briefly across his face that he'd have missed it if it was anyone else.

"What is it? Yes or no?" Elliot snaps.

Jonny tears his eyes away, finally, and Patrick feels the breath rush back into his lungs. "We went to the same college," he says.

"We didn't know each other that well though," Patrick interjects. "Just saw each other around campus sometimes, that's all. Had a few mutual friends."

This time, he's not mistaken about the flash of dismay that shows on Jonny's face, and it's incredibly petty of him, but it gives him a mean little sort of satisfaction to see it.

"Oh, I see," Elliot says. "I'd have thought you'd have mentioned it to me, Jon, that you know _the_ Patrick Kane."

Jonny shrugs. "Like he said, not that well."

Fucking christ, Patrick thinks. Fuck you. _Fuck you._

"Okay, well, I need to go to the bathroom, so if you'll excuse me," Elliot says, standing up; Patrick tries not to look at Elliot's hand lingering on Jonny's shoulder, the way he runs his fingertips over the line of Jonny's deltoid. "Convince him to make us our cake, Jon."

The moment he's out the door, Patrick has to resist the physical urge to just - follow him out of there, leave and never look back. But Jonny's looking at him again, his eyes dark and unreadable, and the sudden pall of silence that falls over the tiny room makes Patrick swallow and look down instead, at his hands clasped in his lap.

He wants to tell Jonny to take his _wedding_ and his cake and shove it; but he can't. He needs to appear unaffected by this. He needs to be classy, and polite, and Jonny can - still shove it anyway.

"So - I guess congratulations are in order," Patrick says finally. "But I'm sorry, I don't think I can do your cake."

Jonny doesn't say anything for the longest while; the seconds tick past, dragging out uncomfortably, and when Patrick glances up, Jonny's _still_ staring at him. It makes Patrick fidget uncomfortably, his skin prickling with anxiety. Jonny's looking at him like - like he's drinking him in, and Patrick turns away so he doesn't have to meet Jonny's eyes.

It took him years to get over Jonny. He doesn't need to waste a few more years of his life on this one meeting.

Just as Patrick thinks he's going to get up and leave, Jonny speaks. "It's - really good to see you again. You look good."

"Thanks," Patrick replies, short and curt.

"You've been doing so well. I kind of - I've been following what you're doing, and I'm really glad for you."

"I - " Patrick starts, and then stops. His skin feels cold and brittle, like thin ice; he snaps his head up to look at Jonny. "You've - what, you've been following me? Reading up on me?"

A tiny frown appears between Jonny's brows, creasing his forehead. "You're in a lot of magazines and newspapers."

"You - "

 _Fuck you,_ Patrick wants to scream. Eight years - eight years of studiously avoiding any mention of Jonathan Toews, of forcing himself to look past articles that mentioned the Toews-Gilbert Group, of skipping the gossip sites on the internet because he knew Jonny would be on them. He's been steadily keeping Jonny out of his life, and here he is, learning that Jonny's fucking - what, kept tabs on him? Jesus.

"Is this why you chose me? For your cake?" Patrick says; he hates how bitter he sounds now, but he can't hold himself back. "You kept tabs on me, and then you decided you'd get me to do this, so you can rub my face in about how happy you are now? How you're getting married?"

Jonny sits upright, alarm spreading on his face. He makes a little abortive movement like he wants to reach out and take hold of Patrick's hands, shaking in his lap, but draws himself back with an audible exhale. "Patrick - _no_ , I promise you, that's not - it's not like that at all. You're the best pastry chef in the country. I genuinely admire what you've been doing. And Elliot suggested you, and he badly wants you to design the cake - "

"Oh, if _Elliot_ wants it, I guess that's fine and dandy, huh?"

"My god, Patrick," Jonny says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and all Patrick can think about is how he used to do that back whenever he was especially frustrated or upset, how he still does it now. "This is the first time we've spoken or seen each other in years. Can't we at least be civil?"

"Fine," Patrick snaps. " _Mr. Toews_ , my apologies, but I'm unable to fulfil your request. Please look for another bakery."

"Jesus," Jonny says; and this is the first time all afternoon that Patrick's seen even a glimmer of upset in him. "Why are you being so hostile? In case you forgot, _you_ were the one who walked out on me."

"Fucking _christ_ ," Patrick spits out, and he thinks he might actually start shouting at Jonny; he's lifting himself out of his seat, almost without thinking, when the door opens and Elliot reenters.

"So what's the conclusion?" he asks briskly as he sits down next to Jonny, pressing his body against his; Jonny sits stiff and still, every inch of his body taut and tense. "Do we have a cake now, Jon?"

He reaches up to adjust Jonny's tie as he does it, his long slender fingers hooking into the knot of the tie, and it makes Patrick feel _ill_ to see Elliot draped all over Jonny like this.

He wants to tell them to fuck right off, but he can't; not in front of Elliot, not as the chef and owner of Sugar Kane Bakery. He takes a deep breath, counts to three in his mind, and clenches his fists under the table to keep himself steady when he speaks.

"I'll need to think about it," he says as politely as he can manage, rising to his feet. "The bakery is very busy in April. And I'm sorry, but I have to run now - got another appointment."

"Oh, come on!" Elliot says. "Don't just leave us like this, I need to have a cake by you."

"I'll think on it, and my assistant will let you know tomorrow. I'm really sorry, but I have to go."

He turns on his heel and is out of the door before either Jonny or Elliot can say another word; and he doesn't breathe, not until he's out of the Palais de Lune lobby and in the street. It's started to snow heavily, but the blast of cold and wind in Patrick's face is a welcome wake-up call from the hot mess he left behind. He wraps his coat tighter around himself, blinking against the snow, and hails the first cab he sees.

Fuck Jonathan Toews. Fuck his stupid heart. Fuck _everything_.

\---

"I can't believe it, Sharpy," Patrick says, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder so he has his hands free to aggressively sketch his latest idea for a new dual layer bon bon on his iPad. He's back in the bakery and safely locked in his office, Ryan consigned to the kitchen for the moment. "I just - can you believe the nerve of him?"

Sharpy sighs down the phone. "I know this must be a shock to you, but - "

"A shock? What shock? I'm just - pissed that he had the fucking nerve to ask me to design his wedding cake. I mean, jesus. In what world does someone engage his fucking ex-boyfriend to make his wedding cake to someone else, anyway? And like - I didn't even _know_ he was getting married and the last person I ever expected to see or hear from was him and -"

"Wait, Peeks," Sharpy says, "I get it, that's a shitty thing to do to you, but what do you mean, you didn't know - how could you not?"

"How would I have known?" Patrick snaps.

"Uh, he's Jonathan Toews of the Toews-Gilbert Group. He's in the news all the time, he's in society magazines and gossip columns. His engagement announcement was in Michigan Avenue Magazine a couple of months ago. How could you not have seen all that?"

Patrick goes still. The phone is very hot against his ear. "I.. just don't?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't - look at things with Jonny in it. I mean I just - I don't go looking for news of him, okay, I skip over any mention of him I come across, I don't read articles about him, I don't - "

"Wow," Sharpy says, voice tinged with disbelief. "For eight years? You didn't even - look to see how he was doing? Or what he was doing? That's some real serious dedication there, Peeks."

"No," Patrick says obstinately. "I didn't want - I mean, why should I? We broke up, Sharpy. I didn't need to have constant reminders of him in my life after that. I went on with my life and he went on with his. Obviously, since he's now getting - married."

He stumbles over the word, and holds his breath, praying and hoping that Sharpy doesn't give him shit about that.

There's a short silence, and then Sharpy says, "Yeah, you've totally moved on with your life. That's why you've avoided all mention of him for eight years."

"You fucking - take that back, Sharpy," Patrick hisses into the phone. He looks down at the iPad and sees that his sketch is now a mess of squiggles; he's been drawing over the same spot compulsively again and again throughout his conversation with Sharpy without even realizing it, and he's holding his Apple Pencil tight enough that it's digging into the webbing between his thumb and index finger, leaving a stark red mark. "I have _so_ moved on. I'm a hundred per cent over him already."

"Hey, I stand by what I said," Sharpy says. "I mean, you think you're totally over him, don't you? You think you've got your closure. Then this shouldn't be a problem - why are you calling me up to whine about this? If Jonny's nothing to you, why do you care if he's getting married?"

There are so many things wrong with everything Sharpy said that Patrick actually starts spluttering. He's totally fucking moved on, no matter what Sharpy thinks. Yeah, it maybe took him like three years to even consider looking at another man again, and yeah, Sharpy was there with him at his worst and lowest and darkest nadir, but the point is - he did move on. He set up Sugar Kane Bakery, even dated a few guys on and off, and never looked up Jonathan Toews, not once, no matter how strong the temptation got at times. And this closure bullshit is - Patrick closed that door pretty damn tight, when he broke up with Jonny.

"I don't - I can't even - " he says, and draws a breath at the wrong time; he inhales his own spit and starts choking and coughing.

Sharpy listens patiently through his hacking and wheezing while he grabs himself a cup of water from the office dispenser and drinks it down shakily, wishing it was whisky or bourbon or something that can numb him from Sharpy's nonsense.

"I can't even with you," he finally says, breathing hard, when his throat and nose no longer feel like they're burning. "I can't believe you can say that to me, what the fuck."

"Well," Sharpy says, sounding insufferably smug, "then go ahead and do his cake. Show him how little you care. And you know I'm just telling it like it is."

Patrick takes a deep breath, trying to still the trembling in his fingers. "No," he says firmly. "I'm not going to do it."

"Then you're obviously not over him," Sharpy says - and he sounds even more smug than before.

Patrick hangs up on him. Fuck Sharpy anyway. He's way too busy to entertain him and all that bullshit.

\---

**September 2006**

Chicago is - big. That's Patrick's first thought when he arrives there. Big, and crowded, and kind of overwhelming, actually. It's so different from Buffalo that he actually feels weirdly disconnected and disoriented for the first couple of days, caught up in a form of culture shock; he'd always thought culture shock would hit you only if you're in a different country with a different language or something, but even within the same country, Chicago is worlds apart from Buffalo.

He'd never even have made it here, if not for the scholarship he'd won. He didn't want to leave Buffalo - didn't even want to go to college, actually, because it'd have been easier on his parents if he'd gone out to work instead and brought home the extra income - but his mom made him apply for every scholarship and grant he'd been eligible for. "You have to go to college," she'd told him one day when she came home after a double shift at the diner, her face haggard and drawn. "You'll make much more with a good education behind you. Your dad and I can manage. We've managed this far already."

And now here he is, at the University of Chicago, feeling completely homesick and out of place.

The good thing is that he hits it off with his RA right away - Patrick Sharp or Sharpy, so named because there are already four other Patricks in their dorm, a junior with a double major in marketing and communications - and his roommate, an exchange student from Sweden named Marcus who's pretty chill, keeps to his own side of their tiny double room, and is fairly good at picking up after himself.

Marcus is also - not too bad to look at, but Patrick keeps _that_ thought to himself. He’s here for his college degree, not for - anything else.

He does tell Marcus though, a few days after he’s moved in; he’s not sure at first whether he should, but he thinks it’s maybe only fair for him to know, and if he’s not comfortable with that he can move rooms. “Hey, Marcus,” he says when he’s plucked up the courage. “So - I’m gay, and I just thought - if you’d be okay with that or - “

Marcus barely spares him a sideways glance as he clicks away at his mouse, playing some game on his PC. “Uh, I don’t care about that. It doesn't matter to me. You do you.”

The relief that washes over Patrick at that is so huge that he can’t speak for a moment. “Yeah, okay,” he says, swallowing. “Thanks, Marcus.”

So - his roommate knows he’s gay, Sharpy knows he’s gay, and no one treats him any differently because of it, which goes a long way towards making Patrick relax and feel slightly more confident about his decision to come to Chicago. But he’s pretty sure he’s not going to meet anyone anytime soon, despite Sharpy’s sly jokes about how college is a sexual smorgasbord, and his raised eyebrows whenever Patrick's eyes linger little too long at someone; he’s not even actively looking, anyway.

But during his second week of school and his first Economics class of the semester, a guy comes into the lecture hall nearly ten minutes after the class has started. His hair's a little awry and there are still actual pillow creases on his cheeks, like he's just woken up and sprinted to the lecture. There are a few audible titters; but when the guy looks up and gives the entire hall a slow once-over, they die down at the sharpness of his gaze.

Patrick gets the distinct feeling that this guy, despite being eighteen and looking like a hobo in his tank top and flip flops, is extremely certain of his own place in the world. It probably helps too that he's like, the hottest dude Patrick's ever clapped eyes on; tall, built, shoulders broad with muscle and skin tanned gold like he's spent all summer on a beach. When he starts climbing the steps, Patrick can't help but notice the muscles bunching in his thick thighs.

The hot guy stops right next to him. "Is this seat taken?" he asks gruffly, not looking at Patrick as he says it; he's fumbling in his backpack for something. Rude, Patrick thinks. Why are all the hot dudes always rude?

"Nope," he replies.

The guy slides into the empty seat, and only then does he turn to look at Patrick. "Thanks," he starts to say - and abruptly cuts himself off, staring at Patrick's face.

Patrick looks back; the intensity of that gaze is even more overwhelming up close. He blinks, but he finds that he can't look away, and whoever this dude is, he's just - really, really handsome. "I - what is it?" he says. God, does he have dirt on his nose or something stuck in his teeth? That'd be the cherry on Patrick's week, wouldn't it, looking like a fool in front of the hottest guy on campus.

The guy blinks; his eyes sharpen, dark and intense and _hot_. "Sorry," he says. "Hey, I'm Jonny."

"Patrick."

Jonny breaks into a smile, and it's amazing what that smile does for his face - it goes soft, lighting up his eyes, and Patrick's stomach does a little flip. He notices suddenly that there are tiny moles at the corner of Jonny's mouth. "Nice to meet you, Patrick," he says, and that's the moment Patrick thinks he falls in love.

It's the most terrible, unreal cliche of all, love at first sight, and not something Patrick ever thought would happen in real life, much less to him, but - it happens.

And the fact that Jonny feels the same - well, that's just the icing on the cake, really.

\---

**January 2018**

Patrick doesn't - can't - sleep that night when he gets home. He doesn't leave the bakery till past midnight - and that's not uncommon, especially not so close to the launch of a new pastry - but he _hates_ that he can't stop thinking about Jonny.

Even when he's already in bed, freshly showered and rolled into his sheets, he's still thinking about their meeting, the Jonny he saw today superimposed and merged with the Jonny he remembers. The way Jonny looks now, older, harder around the edges maybe, but still Jonny in his gestures and the way he speaks and moves. How his hands look the same as Patrick remembers, his fingers long and elegant and his nails shaped and buffed. Patrick used to make fun of him actually getting his nails manicured, especially when his were always bitten to the quick, his fingers rough from work and scarred from burns, and Jonny would just flush and mutter something about how it was 'expected' of him.

Patrick fucking hates those expectations. They're why the whole mess between them happened in the first place.

It was - fuck, it was the hardest and worst part of Patrick's life, bar none; but he got through it by thinking he'd never see Jonny again - out of sight, out of mind. But now - now Jonny's somehow wandered back into his life, with a _fiancé_ , and jesus christ. Patrick's in a sweatshirt, his heat on, covers tucked tight around him, but he's trembling from the abrupt chill that washes over his body.

He's not going to be able to sleep tonight, obviously. So he does the worst thing possible - reaches out to grope for his phone on the nightstand, opens up Google, and does the one thing he hasn't done since college: pulls up a search on Jonathan Toews.

Jonny has his own Wikipedia page now. He certainly didn't have that in college. _Christ_.

He taps over to the news tab, and there are several articles on Jonny's engagement to Elliot Philip Worthington III. It's - a big deal in Chicago, because _Jonny's_ a big deal; Patrick honestly has no idea how he'd managed to avoid any mention of this over the last couple of months. Patrick's right about Elliot too - he's indeed born into wealth, one of the cookie cutter trust fund babies in Chicago high society appearing often in gossip columns and society magazines; his father's the managing director of one of Chicago's largest law firms.

Jonny and Elliot had been dating for barely five months before they announced their engagement, at least from what Patrick can glean.

Five months. Jesus. Patrick swallows against the lump in his throat. He and Jonny had spent four blissful, happy _years_ together before everything went to shit.

Patrick can only skim through the first couple of articles before he has to stop reading, because this, he hates this feeling too, like a cold hand's grasped his heart and given it a squeeze so tight that he can't breathe; and it's fucking - it's unbelievable how Jonny still has this effect on him despite all the years that have passed.

Fucking hell. Sharpy was right. And the last thing Patrick needs is to have Sharpy telling him "I knew it, I told you so" in that irritatingly self-satisfied way of his - or worse, for Jonny to figure out that maybe Patrick isn't quite so over him. Patrick can kind of see how Jonny could easily come to that conclusion if he actually turns his request down.

It's the thought of Sharpy and Jonny actually knowing that he's still harbouring all these stupid feelings which makes his decision. He's going to do the cake, and maybe that will give him the impetus he needs to cut the cord once and for all, and _show_ both Jonny and Sharpy that he can most definitely get over this whole thing.

\---

"Can you send an email to that Elliot guy, or his PA, whoever, and tell them we'll do their cake?" Patrick asks the next morning as Ryan slopes in, yawning.

"Woah, hold up, boss," Ryan says mid-yawn. "Really? So you've decided to do it? Were they cool at the meeting?"

"It went - well," Patrick says after a moment's hesitation. "Anyway, if you can, go through my schedule from now till March and see if we can reschedule some things. And we can possibly push back the launch of the passion fruit petit gateau in March. I'll put Nick on that - I think he has some ideas for adding a layer of chantilly cream to it."

Ryan looks alarmed. "Patrick, are you okay? You - since when have you pushed back a launch?"

"What? We do that all the time," Patrick says, trying not to sound defensive.

"Yeah, because of _problems_ , with the recipe or the design or whatever - you've never done it just so you could fit some event into your books. Is this Elliot person a big deal? He must be! Did he - "

"Ryan, shut up," Patrick says through gritted teeth. "For once, just do what I tell you, please."

"You pay me to tell you when you _can't_ do something, boss," Ryan says smartly; but he must see something in the hard set of Patrick's jaw, because he actually hesitates, and then says, "Yeah, okay. Fine. It's your choice."

His _choice_. Fuck. Patrick knows that Ryan's looking out for him, for the bakery and the team, but - he's going to choose to put them under a lot of strain to make this wedding deadline, and none of it sits right with him.

"Can you get the morning briefing started, please, Ryan?" he says finally, sighing.

The crew is gathered in the kitchen for the morning briefing by the time he comes out of the office, chatting and laughing as they clatter in, aprons and gloves pulled on, tucking their hair under hairnets and hats. Patrick takes the clipboard Ryan gives him and takes a deep breath; it's 6:06 a.m., the start of another day, and if there's something that can lift his mood, it's being in his bakery with his team, smelling the scent of buttercream and caramel and croissants, his hands deep in flour and sourdough and fondant.

Patrick starts the briefing with a quick rundown of the bakery menu and a discussion on who's working on the Friday pastry specials, and checking in with everyone on their inventories and duties for the day, before he turns to Nick.

"Nick, when you have time, let me know what you were thinking of doing for the passion fruit petit gateau. I'm going to push back the launch and we might as well use the time to improve it. I think that idea you had about using both creme fraiche and chantilly in the pastry could work, but we might have to tweak the layering and building of the petit gateau itself so it can hold its structure."

"Wait, why are we pushing back the launch?" Nick asks, his face dismayed. It's a mirror of Ryan's face from earlier.

Patrick sighs. "Okay, well, you guys are not going to like this, but we're going to have to get a wedding cake done. By April."

There's an audible gasp that goes around the kitchen.

"Wait, wait, hear me out," he says, holding a hand up to forestall the inevitable protests. "This is - I'm going to take full creative responsibility on it, obviously, for the design. I will need everyone's help, I'm not going to lie, but yeah, I'm going to be in there rolling fondant and crafting the lacework and _everything_ on my own, if I have to. I'm just - prepping you guys for this, it's going to be very busy, and - shit, Ryan, make a note, we need to start ordering the non-edibles first - but you guys are a great team, and I know you've got my back, and there's no other bakery in North America that I think could do this, so - we've got this, yeah?"

"I mean - sounds like we _have_ to get this, anyway, no matter what," Alex says, looking alarmed, and Patrick groans inwardly. Fucking hell, he's not being fair to them and he knows it.

"I'm sorry, guys," he says. "I just - I know this isn't fair, springing this on you, but - this is something I've got to do, and I'm really counting on all of you."

"Yeah, of course we can," Kendall says comfortingly, and honestly, bless Kendall and her everything. "We've got you, Patrick. We'll do what we can."

"Thank you," Patrick says in relief, as everyone else nods alongside her. "You guys are the best, okay, I love you all - "

"All right everyone, time to start work!" Ryan yells; everyone laughs, the tension in the air dissipating, and man, Patrick really does have the best people on his team.

\---

Elliot, to Patrick's surprise, calls him the very same day after Ryan emails him. "I'm so glad you agreed to do the cake," he coos down the line, saccharine-sweet. "Tell me you'll be personally designing it, not someone from your team."

"I will be," Patrick says, "but my team will provide me with some ideas and input along the way - I do have some very talented cake designers."

"I don't want someone more inferior," Elliot says dismissively; Patrick feels his jaw drop open, because - what, inferior? What the fuck.

He suppresses the urge to tell Elliot to go fuck himself and make his own damn cake, and says neutrally, "We should set up another meeting this week, get the contracts signed, discuss a few more details about the cake. Frankly, Mr. Worthington, you were very vague about your requirements the last time we met."

"Okay, well, I already told you, just design the grandest cake you can think of. I don't care much, I just need it to look amazing at the wedding, and I want to tell everyone it was made personally by Patrick Kane. That's it. Whatever design you want, that's up to you."

Despite his misgivings, Patrick can't help but feel a small measure of relief - if there's one thing he wants and likes, it's being given full control over the design process. It's one reason he doesn't like to do weddings much, prefers to give the job over to Nick or Alex, because most brides and grooms insist on imposing their own ideas and views, and Patrick didn't get awarded the best pastry chef in the world by letting someone else dictate how he should make his pastries.

"Okay," he says. "I'll come up with a first design draft soon, send it over to you when - "

"There is one thing though," Elliot interrupts. "I'm going to need weekly progress updates. I just need to know it's going well."

The misgivings come rushing back with vehemence; Elliot may be letting Patrick have full creative control on his cake, but clearly he's not willing to relinquish control completely, and this is his subtle way of letting Patrick know it. "Sure," Patrick says, hating it, trying to remind himself that this is normal, this is par for the course when they're designing a wedding cake. Progress reports are not a big deal.

"Great," Elliot says. "I'm so glad - I wish Jon was as glad. He's the one who said you were a good choice, but now he doesn't even seem happy that you agreed to make the cake."

And - what? What the hell does that even mean? There's a slow wave of fury rising in him as Elliot's words sink in; but Patrick keeps his mouth wisely shut, because this sounds like a private matter between Jonny and his - his fiancé, and he doesn't need to - think about Jonny any more than is necessary.

But honestly, fuck Jonathan Toews. If he doesn't think Patrick's good enough or whatever - or if he's decided he no longer cares after their meeting - screw him. Patrick's going to make a wedding cake so good he'll _choke_ on it.

"I'll get the contracts drawn up, then," Patrick says, no longer caring about how curt and cold he sounds.

"Of course," Elliot says. "Remember, we'll pay you triple of whatever your usual fee is."

Patrick tries very hard to feel bad about the shudder of revulsion that crawled down his spine, but - fuck it. Elliot is gross and nothing's going to change his mind on that.

"Yeah, okay," he manages, and then hangs up before Elliot can say anything else. He looks down at his hands, trembling ever so slightly, at the papers scattered across his desk with his blank cake design templates, and thinks: _Fuck, what have I got myself into this time?_

\---

When he starts on the first draft of the sketch, he works fast, mindful of the fact that it's already mid-January and the wedding's a mere three months away; it takes him just two days to have a firm design in his mind. It's difficult to come up with something he thinks Elliot would like, given whatever vague instructions he'd tossed Patrick's way, and in the end he decides to go with what feels right to him - like he's done with practically every award-winning creation of his, anyway.

Elliot had said he wanted at least seven tiers - so Patrick goes along with that to start, preparing his base template for the tiers before working on sketching the design for each tier. Lots of roses would be good, he decides; Elliot seems like the type of guy who'd be into that shit - gumpaste rosettes on the bottommost, middle and top tiers, maybe, and the rest of the smaller, more delicate fondant flowers scattered around the tops and sides of the rest of the tiers. Sugar lace appliques - gold, definitely, and fine gold dust on the very top tier around the cake topper, because Patrick just thinks Elliot's going to want something as ostentatious as possible.

As for the filling - Patrick has no idea what Elliot likes or wants, but well, he remembers what Jonny liked; and it's just easier to go with that and decide on a warm spiced honey vanilla sponge and a light eggnog buttercream, spiked with a good cognac - perhaps a Tesseron with its notes of honey, caramel and vanilla would go well in that.

There'd been one night in Paris when Jonny had poured him a finger of that exact cognac, told him it was his favourite, taught him how to sip it and how to taste the delicate subtle notes of the aged liquor on his tongue, right before he kissed it off his lips.

He fights down the wave of bitterness that always threatens to engulf him when he thinks of Paris, and keeps his full focus on the design while Ryan manages the nitty-gritty of the bakery; he finishes the sketch in two days. Then he sends it off to both Jonny and Elliot with a detailed description, and tries not to think about it, hoping against hope that they'll both okay it and then he doesn't have to talk to them any more than is necessary.

But then again, Patrick's life doesn't wend that smoothly.

\---

Jonny calls him at the bakery literally the same evening, a few hours after he'd sent the email. "I hope I'm not bothering you?" he asks, his deep smooth voice rumbling down the line and into Patrick's nerves.

Patrick takes a look outside the glass window of his office; the bakery's still open, although they're closing in an hour or so, and he can see Kendall already starting to do a stock take of the remaining inventory as she does nightly. "Uh, not really," he says, wiping his palms on his thighs. "What can I do for you?"

He tries to keep his tone as civil as possible, wincing a little when he recalls the way he'd sworn at Jonny and marched out of their last meeting.

"I didn't get a chance to tell you this, when your assistant spoke to me, but - thank you, for agreeing," Jonny says. "And - I'm sorry, the way our meeting ended - I guess it wasn't great, springing that on you like that."

At least he's admitting it, Patrick thinks. "No, it wasn't great," he says coolly, "but it doesn't matter. You're hiring me in a professional capacity, and I behaved unprofessionally. Let's just move on and I'll treat you the same as how I treat every other client. I assume you're calling me about the design."

There's a long pause - long enough for Patrick to start fidgeting in his seat, the phone warm against his ear - before Jonny speaks again. "Yes. No. I mean, yes, sort of. I liked it. You really are so talented."

"Okay," Patrick says slowing, drawing out the vowels. What the fuck is Jonny trying to say here?

"I mean, I think it's perfect, I don't have any issues with it - but I just wanted to ask. Tesseron Trésor Grande?"

It's Patrick's turn to pause now. Fuck, _fuck_ , he didn't think Jonny would pick up on it. "Yes," he says, swallowing.

"That's great," Jonny says. "And the honey vanilla sponge. With an eggnog buttercream filling - really ingenious, inspired, especially with the Tesseron. I was surprised you'd remember all that. What flavours I'd like."

Patrick feels his face heat up. Jesus, it's been eight years, how the hell does he still remember these things, really? And why does Jonny have to call him out on it?

"So, uh, I have your go ahead to proceed with this design then?" he asks, instead of responding to what Jonny said. _Keep it professional_ , he tells himself.

"Yes," Jonny says, after another momentary hesitation. "And - I mean it, Patrick. It's beautiful. You've always had such a talent for this."

"Thanks," Patrick mumbles. "I'll work on this. We can place orders for everything we need now with your approval."

"Get whatever you need," Jonny says. "Anything at all. And if you need anything else - just call me anytime and let me know. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," Patrick says, and mercifully, thankfully, Jonny hangs up after, but not without thanking him once more, and somehow it makes Patrick feel like shit instead of feeling accomplished.

That night, he doesn't sleep well; he tosses and turns over and over, trying to clear his mind and keep it blank and resolutely not think about Jonny and the upcoming wedding; when he finally falls into a fitful sleep, he dreams of himself back in the apartment he'd shared with Jonny when they were nineteen. He's lying on their bed, Jonny smiling down at him as he leans down to kiss him, Patrick's thighs splayed open around his hips while he slowly, smoothly fucks into him, jolting him up onto the bed until his head hits the headboard, sending them both into gales of laughter even as Jonny's still inside him -

He wakes up to find that he's knocked his head into his headboard, and that he's disconcertingly hard. But worse still is the heavy little knot of bone-deep sorrow in his chest.

It's not the first time Patrick's had dreams about Jonny; the dreams were the worst just after the split, dogging him almost nightly, but he hasn't had one in almost a year, maybe, and he'd thought - hoped - he might finally be getting over it.

_Fuck._

\---

Unfortunately, Patrick's morning does not improve. He manages to make it to the bakery on time even though his head's pounding from lack of sleep, but the moment Ryan sees him he frowns. "Patrick, you look like shit," he says.

"Thanks a lot," Patrick says, sinking into his chair.

"Did you not sleep at all?"

"Not much," Patrick says. "It was - I mean, I've been up late most of this week anyway, working on that cake for the Worthington wedding."

He always calls it the Worthington wedding, never the Toews wedding. He's not sure if Ryan catches it, but if he does, he never calls Patrick out on it.

"Hm," Ryan says, looking at him closely. "Okay, I'm going to run out and get some good caffeine for you, or you're not going to last the day. Everyone's ready, you can start the morning briefing."

"Thanks, Ryan," Patrick says gratefully as Ryan heads out.

He completes the morning briefing fine - although Kendall does remark on his dark circles, damn it - but when he returns to the office, the phone is ringing and Ryan's nowhere to be seen. The queue at the coffee shop he likes must be longer than usual, Patrick thinks, as he picks up the phone. "Hello, Sugar Kane Bakery."

"Is this Patrick Kane?" a voice says brusquely, and Patrick snaps to attention, because - shit, it's Elliot, he remembers that fake-sweet voice, now sharpened by the terseness in his tone. This is exactly what he doesn't need this morning.

"Yes," he replies politely. "Mr. Worthington?"

"Yeah, it's me," Elliot says, "and that design is most definitely not of the standard I'd expect of the famous Patrick Kane."

For a moment, Patrick thinks he's misheard. "Excuse me?"

"It's no good," Elliot says, without elaborating. Patrick realises he's gaping against the phone, and snaps his mouth shut.

"Care to clarify what you mean?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice polite and composed. "I actually spoke to Mr. Toews yesterday, and he approved the design and told me to go ahead."

"Jon spoke to you?" Elliot says sharply. "What the - I didn't agree to whatever he told you! I didn't _say_ we could - "

"What's the issue here, Mr. Worthington?" Patrick cuts in, feeling the headache throb painfully behind his eyes. "If you could just tell me exactly what you're dissatisfied with or what you want - "

"I don't know," Elliot says, a hint of petulance in his voice, and Patrick inwardly groans. What the fuck is wrong with this man, for god's sake? "I just don't think it looks - it's pretty plain, don't you think? Flowers and roses? I said I needed it to look _grand_."

Patrick holds his rising temper in with some effort. "Mr. Worthington, this was just a sketch. The cake, when it's done, is going to look pretty damn good."

He lets the 'damn' slip out before wincing; shit, he's talking to a _client_. Elliot, however, doesn't seem to notice, because he continues to complain.

"And that filling - I mean, seriously? Honey vanilla sponge? I'm sorry, but that's boring. Eggnog cream? Who uses eggnog for a wedding cake?"

"The eggnog buttercream filling that will be used, Mr. Worthington, is of my own recipe," Patrick says coldly, no longer bothering to hide the animosity he's feeling. Fuck Elliot for calling him up just to bitch about his fucking award-winning recipes, jesus. "And it's unique, and different, unless you want the even more boring fillings like raspberry and chocolate. And again, I spoke to Mr. Toews, and he has approved this."

"I didn't approve this," Elliot says. "I didn't even know he spoke to you already. How even - "

And that's - well, that's kind of weird, admittedly, that Jonny's not even telling his fiancé that he's speaking to Patrick, making a decision that should be a joint one between him and Elliot - but that's none of Patrick's business anyway. Maybe they should learn to communicate better - and date for more than five fucking months - before rushing into marriage, he thinks bitterly; and in the next second he's shocked and ashamed at the surge of anger that's risen in his throat.

"Mr. Worthington," he says, "I believe that's a matter between you and your fiancé. I assumed you had both agreed on it before he called to give me his approval. If you have issues, I suggest you take it up with him, and then call me back once you have a concrete decision and some firm ideas in mind that the two of you have agreed on _together_. Thanks and bye."

He hangs up over Elliot's sputters and sits in dread for the next few seconds, expecting the phone to ring again and to deal with more of Elliot's bullshit insults; but nothing happens except that Ryan pushes open the door to the office, a cup holder with two steaming cups of coffee in one hand, which he puts down on Patrick's desk.

"Woah, you look worse than before," he says, groping in his coat pocket and dropping a box next to the coffee. "Luckily I stopped by Walgreen's and picked up some Tylenol for you."

"Thanks," Patrick says. "That Worthington guy called. Said my design was crap and the filling was boring." He rolls his eyes even as he gives a short laugh.

"What?" Ryan says. "But didn't his fiancé call you last night to give you the go-ahead?"

"Yup," Patrick says, popping the P.

"Wow, those two have _issues_."

"They better fix it soon, or this cake is not going to be made on time," Patrick says darkly.

\---

Patrick doesn't hear anything from Elliot the rest of the day or the next week, so he assumes he must have talked to Jonny; and if he knows anything about Jonny, it's quite likely Jonny's overruled him on this. With this assumption in mind, he begins to sketch a final, much more detailed draft on his iPad while working with Nick, Vinnie and Alex on the ingredients they'll need, how much and when they'll need them, any recurring shipments they might need to set up; even the staff schedules and rotations need to be properly worked out months in advance to make sure there's an even distribution of hands between the bakery and the project kitchen, and all the minutiae of running a bakery while taking on a big project like this. Every order of ingredients they make needs to be an urgent rush order now; there's no time to waste now that they're beginning the preparations and January is sliding quickly into February.

In his heart, Patrick knows this is most definitely not the right way of doing business and he really ought to give Jonny or Elliot a call, confirm their agreement, before he goes ahead with starting the orders and work on the cake; but there's a bigger, terrible part of him that really can't be bothered. Let them sort out their own problems - Patrick's job is simply to make them a 'grand cake', which he can do - and stay out of _their_ business.

"That's a gorgeous cake," Nick says, when Patrick's done with the final design and printed it out in colour to tack it on the wall in the project kitchen and in his office. "Really good job, boss."

"You think?" Patrick says, surveying his work critically.

"Yeah, this is going to be one of your masterpieces, for sure. And in such a high-profile wedding, you know this cake is going to be photographed like, a million times. It'll be good publicity for the bakery."

"I guess," Patrick says, biting his lip, still distracted with examining the sketch. "I think I'm satisfied with this - we’d better hope the couple will be too."

"Why wouldn't they be?" Nick asks. "It's beautiful."

Patrick looks at the towering cake with its seven tiers, nearly six hundred gumpaste flowers, roses, ribbons, and leaves in all, plus the buttercream pearls and curlicues and the delicate lace scrollwork, every last detail to be handmade and piped on by hand - and says without thinking, "Yeah, you know what? I do like it - I kind of always thought I'd want my own wedding cake to look something like this, if I ever got married."

Nick brightens. "Hey, if you do get married, you can design a cake for yourself that's a hundred times better."

"I - you know I'm not getting married and never will," Patrick mutters. "And anyway, this isn't about me. It's about what the customer wants and likes."

"They'll love it," Nick says confidently.

Patrick's not as certain as Nick is, but stares up at the drawing one more time and sighs. Whatever. He's put in a lot of effort into the design - now he just needs to get it over and done with and make a cake that's going to knock both Elliot's and Jonny's socks off, and get his bakery into a few more magazines while he's at it.

\---

The next day, Patrick has a speaking engagement scheduled at his alma mater, the French Pastry School, where he's often invited to give talks. It had been snowing lightly when he arrived at the school, but after his talk ends and he's hurrying through the lobby towards the glass doors he can see that the snow's coming down thicker and harder now. He pushes the door open to steps out onto the sidewalk and the wind hits him like a punch in the face, snow melting on his cheeks and gathering in his eyebrows and eyelashes. Fuck - it's shaping up to become a real snowstorm soon, and it's going to be impossible to get an empty cab.

Blinking against the wind, Patrick ducks back into the lobby long enough to pull off one glove and tug his phone out to call a Lyft. No luck there either; there aren't any drivers willing to pick him up.

Eyeing the road outside, he decides to try to flag down a cab, and if he hasn't managed to get one in the next ten minutes, he'll ask Ryan to get a cab from the bakery and come get him.

But he's only been standing by the road for a few minutes, waving futilely at the few cabs that drive by - none of them empty - when a long black Tesla pulls up at the curb right in front of him. Patrick takes a step backwards, intending to move further up the sidewalk so this car isn't in his way of flagging a taxi; but he stops short when the back window rolls down to reveal, of all people, Jonny in the back seat. Even a few steps away, Patrick can feel the welcome warmth radiating from the interior of the car, pushing back the chill of the wind.

"Need a lift?" Jonny says; he's smiling, but there's a little hint of concern on his face, and Patrick hesitates. Jonny's in a fine suit again, dark grey with a pale heather-grey shirt open at his neck, and as Patrick watches, a few flurries of snow are blown into the car, hitting Jonny's cheeks and exposed neck. Jonny seems barely bothered; he always ran hot, Patrick remembers, was never fazed by cold weather.

"I - it's okay, I'm just waiting for a cab," Patrick says awkwardly, still bound by some stubbornness that stops him from accepting Jonny's offer. A ride in Jonny's car, alone alongside Jonny in close quarters - that's a scenario he _doesn't_ want happening.

Plus, what are the odds, really? He and Jonny have lived eight years in Chicago since the breakup without ever crossing paths, and now he's run into Jonny twice in one week, a mere few months before Jonny's due to get married? This is verging on just a little too coincidental, in Patrick's opinion.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jonny says. "You'll never get a cab with a storm coming, and even if you do you'll freeze to death waiting. Come on, just get in - I'll take you wherever you need to go."

Patrick stares helplessly at Jonny for a moment; a particularly strong gust of wind sweeps a wet flurry of snow into his face, and he makes up his mind. "Okay, fine," he says, blinking the snow away from his lashes.

Jonny gives him a surprisingly warm smile and pushes the car door open, letting Patrick slide in and shut it behind him.

The heat of the car is soothing and welcome after the cold wetness outside, the upholstery a soft buttery leather that Patrick sinks right into; he tugs his gloves off, rubbing his icy fingers against his palms. "Thank you," he says, although he doesn't look at Jonny.

If Jonny minds that, he doesn't show it, because he responds, "It's fine, glad I was passing by and saw you standing there - Terry, could you take Mr. Kane to - ?"

"The bakery," Patrick says in answer to Jonny's unspoken question.

"Take him to Sugar Kane Bakery, please. Along West Erie Street," Jonny says, and Patrick feels a jolt of surprise that Jonny knows - and remembers - where his bakery is, when he's never even been there.

"Yes, Mr. Toews," the driver says, and pulls away from the sidewalk, the car's engine humming quietly.

Now that Patrick's not in any imminent danger of getting frostbite, the awkwardness of being stuck in a small, confined space with Jonny washes over him like a wave. He turns to look out of the window, at the thick snow drifting past, and hopes he can get through the car ride without flaring up like he did at their last meeting. He's just fifteen minutes from the bakery, at most; he can deal with Jonny for fifteen minutes.

"So - the French Pastry School, eh?" Jonny says, tone carefully neutral. God, now he's going to try to make small talk with Patrick. "Do you teach there?"

"No," Patrick says, and doesn't bother to keep the curtness out of his voice. "Just giving a talk."

"Oh," Jonny says. There's a rasp of fabric as Jonny shifts against the leather seat, and then he says, "How have you been doing?"

Patrick sighs inwardly; Jonny's clearly not going to give up trying to talk to him. "Fine," he says, and then thinks better of it. "Good, in fact. Really good."

"I'm glad," Jonny says; and even though Patrick's still not looking at him, the open sincerity in his voice makes Patrick want to maybe - he doesn't even know, throw something, or worse, reach out over the gulf between them and just - touch him. "I was thinking - "

The car jerks to a sudden stop; Patrick is wrenched forward, but instead of smashing his face into the seat in front, he finds himself held back by Jonny's arm across his chest.

"What's going on?" Jonny demands, making no move to take his arm away from Patrick, like he thinks Patrick's going to fly forward in a stationary car.

"Looks like there might be an accident up ahead, sir," the driver says. "Seems like there's a jam all the way down the freeway across the river."

Patrick groans out loud. Fuck, he should have known - this sort of weather in Chicago's basically just asking for something like this to happen, and now he's stuck with Jonny on a freeway for god knows how long this jam will take to clear. Jonny, however, seems to misinterpret his reaction; he snatches his arm back like he's been burned and leans back into his seat. "Sorry," he says. "Are you all right?"

The warmth of Jonny's touch is still bleeding through the layers of his clothing into his skin, and he digs his fingers into his thighs to distract himself. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says, swallowing. "Uh, sorry you had to give me a lift and get stuck in this jam, I guess."

"Why would you be sorry? I offered."

"It's not really on your way, is it? My bakery."

Jonny waves a hand. "It's really okay," he says. "It's not that far from your bakery to the hotel. In fact I often - " he stops, abruptly, and it makes Patrick turn to finally look at him. He's looking a little - sheepish, or embarrassed, maybe, Patrick can't really tell, but there's a slight pink flush in his tanned cheeks.

"Often what?"

"I've driven past your bakery a - few times," Jonny says. "It just - it looks really nice, and I wanted to come in each time, and - see you, so I could congratulate you, but I - just didn't."

"Oh," Patrick says, stunned enough to turn from the window and look at Jonny, who's gazing directly at him and probably has been ever since Patrick got into the car; his mouth feels dry and he licks his lips, trying to absorb what Jonny's just told him. "Uh - why didn't you just, you know. Come in?"

This time, Jonny's the one to turn away from him, and the flush in his cheeks is definitely deepening now. "I thought - I figured you might not want to see me."

And - well, Jonny's not wrong, not entirely; when Patrick thinks of the way seeing Jonny again after eight years has thrown everything about his carefully-ordered, routine life into flux, he gets it. In fact, he might have taken it even worse than he already has, if he'd looked up one fine day and seen Jonny stepping into his bakery, ordering pastries and shit, like nothing ever happened between them.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "You're right about that."

Jonny laughs; it's a short, bitter sound, nothing at all like the deep, chest-rumbling laugh Patrick remembers. "It's fine," he says. "It was good enough for me to know you were successful. That you were doing well."

He leaves the _without me_ unspoken, but Patrick hears it anyway.

 _No,_ he wants to say; he wants to grab Jonny by the shoulders and shout it in his face. _No, I wasn't doing well at all - but were you? Were you, Jonny? Were you happy, or did you lie awake at night, even years after we were done, and think about me like I did about you? Clearly not, since you're getting married._

The thoughts rise like bile and stick in his throat like a lump, threatening to choke him; he swallows them down with difficulty. "Yeah, I didn't do too badly," is what he says.

"You've done an amazing job," Jonny says softly. The earnest sincerity Patrick had heard earlier from him is back, and now when he turns back to face Patrick, Patrick finds that he can't look away from Jonny's searching dark eyes. "But I always knew you had it in you, Pat. All those culinary experiments you did, how hard you worked on your recipes over and over, when we were living together - "

"Stop," Patrick says; he's a little shocked to hear how faint and trembly he sounds, but he can't help it - he can't sit here and listen to Jonny praise him, listen to Jonny dredge up their past. "Sorry - can we just - let's change the subject."

Jonny stares at him silently for a long, uncomfortable moment, strain showing in the fine lines on his forehead and around his eyes; but then he breathes out audibly and shrugs, shoulders elegant in his suit, and the lines on his face smooth out. "Of course."

"So, uh, you've been doing pretty good the past few years, I suppose," Patrick says in a rush, searching for something - anything to say, to break this terrible tension.

"It's been alright," Jonny says. "My parents - well, they retired last year, and I took over the business holdings officially. David is - he's in France. He's married now, they have three kids. You remember, he never really had any interest in the group. It's been - I mean, I've been busy. I travel a lot, work too much, maybe. But everything is going well."

"Including with Elliot, I guess," Patrick says without thinking; and then he bites his lip so hard he thinks he may have broken the skin. What the _fuck_ is he thinking? He sounds like some whiny jealous ex, and that's the last fucking thing he needs Jonny to think of him.

Jonny hesitates. "Patrick - about Elliot - "

Patrick immediately decides he doesn't want to get into a discussion about Elliot with Jonny. The man is Jonny's fiancé - anything Patrick says about him probably isn't going to go over well. He moves swiftly to steer the conversation to something more neutral, and professional, before Jonny starts to do something like, god forbid, tell him how happy he is with Elliot, or whatever other shit Patrick really doesn't want to hear.

"Anyway," he interrupts quickly, "speaking of Elliot, he called me yesterday and told me he didn't like the cake. He didn't seem to know you'd given me the go-ahead to proceed either. Did the both of you not discuss this?"

"He - what?" Jonny says; he looks startled at first, but then his eyebrows draw together in a frown, his face going dark in an instant. "What exactly did he say?"

"I'm - not even sure, to be honest. He was kind of vague, except that apparently honey vanilla sponge is boring and no one uses eggnog buttercream. But he hasn't exactly been clear about his expectations since day one - if he could just tell me exactly what he has in mind, it'd be much easier for me to work with that."

The furrow between Jonny's brows deepens. "He told me that he didn't care what it would taste like or what the filling would be on the inside, only how it'd look."

"Well, that's what he said to me, when he called. He said he didn't approve anything, and that he didn't know you'd spoken to me."

"God," Jonny says, looking annoyed. "I told him - I said since he didn't care about anything except how it would look, that I'd make the final decision on it. I didn't expect him to call you up and say all that. Patrick, I'm sorry. I'll speak to him. It won't happen again."

Patrick shrugs. "Nah, it's fine," he says. "I'm used to demanding brides - or grooms, as it may be. Just - it'd be better if you guys actually talk about it, discuss and agree on what you want."

It occurs to him that he may be a little tactless, basically telling Jonny to his face to - communicate better with his fiancé, or whatever, but Jonny doesn't look the least bit offended, just a little ruffled, and Patrick's pretty sure it's because of Elliot, not him.

The car jerks beneath him; he looks out of the window to see that they're moving through the snow again, nothing more than slowly inching forward, but it's better than not moving at all. "Hey, traffic's started moving," he says. "Maybe they've managed to clear a lane ahead."

"Yeah," Jonny says. "Still going pretty slow, though."

Jonny's not wrong; judging by their current speed, he probably won't reach the bakery for another thirty to forty minutes. Patrick sighs, and turns his attention back to Jonny. If they're going to be stuck here for a while, he might as well continue to make small talk, if Jonny wants to. And it seems Jonny wants to, since he strikes up another casual conversation, this time asking him about the bakery and the new opening in San Francisco: all safe, neutral ground that Patrick can find his footing on, and start talking about without any strange awkwardness happening.

It's - pretty good, actually; after all, there was a time when he and Jonny got along like a house on fire, finishing each other's sentences, the chemistry between them so perfect it was palpable. There's a little of that old chemistry left, Patrick thinks with a sharp pang in his chest, because they still manage to fall into conversation so easily despite the years, as long as they carefully skirt around the minefields that are their past together, and Jonny's wedding.

Jonny even makes him laugh a couple of times, and when they actually pull up at the bakery and the driver says, "We're here, sir," it makes Patrick start. He looks out of the car window, at the shopfront of Sugar Kane Bakery, looking like some little fairytale house in the snow. Even in this weather, Patrick can see it's still crammed with people, going in and out with the distinctive baby blue boxes of the bakery in hand.

"Oh," he says, scrambling to pull his gloves on. "Yeah, I guess - thanks for the lift."

"Anytime," Jonny says easily, as if he hadn't just happened to drive along the street and come across Patrick standing there in the snow. "I mean it - if you ever need anything, just give me a call."

"Okay," Patrick says, swallowing. "Thanks again."

The driver gets out to go around to Patrick's side of the car and open his door; and just as he does so, Jonny suddenly says, "Wait."

Patrick turns back to face him. "What?" he asks; swirls of snow flurries are already starting to make their way into the car, the frozen air condensing in the car's heat.

Jonny reaches over with a hand; for one shocked moment, Patrick thinks Jonny's going to pull him in close, but instead, all he does is press his thumb against Patrick's cheek before lifting it again to show a single long golden eyelash on it. "Eyelash," Jonny says, as if Patrick can't see it for himself.

Jonny's touch burns against his cold skin like a heat brand. He'd always run so hot, still does.

"I - wait here," Patrick says, seized by a sudden, impulsive thought. "Don't go yet."

He runs into the bakery; Dylan's working the counter today, and he looks up when Patrick makes his way through the queue of patrons, squeezing his way behind the counter. "Hey, you're back!" he says. "Didn't think you'd make it back so quickly in this storm - what are you doing?"

"Just getting some stuff for - someone," Patrick mutters. He grabs one of the flattened boxes stored under the counter and quickly folds it open, before he puts in a few pastries he thinks - knows - Jonny might like: a Cronut, which is blueberry-lime for the month of January; a caramelized brown sugar kouign-amann; a strawberry and creme fraiche macaron, and a blackberry and mint macaron; and a rum and vanilla creme brulee cannele.

Maybe he ought to put in two of everything, because it's only courteous to include a share for Elliot as well; but fuck Elliot. Patrick's sure as hell not going to go out of his way to give _him_ anything.

He snaps the box shut quickly and hurries back out, thinking Jonny must have gone by now, it's not like he's going to sit around waiting for Patrick just because Patrick told him to -

But his long black Tesla is still at the curb, engine purring under the snow.

Jonny rolls down the window when Patrick taps on it, and then looks stunned when Patrick thrusts the box under his nose. "For you," Patrick says, breathing hard, which is weird considering that he didn't run or exert himself. "Since you said, you know. That you wanted to come in and try stuff, but never did."

Jonny cradles the box in his hands like it's something exquisite and precious; when he looks up at Patrick, his eyes are wide and very dark. "I - wow. Thank you, Patrick."

"Yeah," Patrick says awkwardly. He steps back from the window, self-consciously rubbing at his nose. "Well, I hope you like them," he adds, and then turns to go back into the bakery, without waiting for Jonny's reaction.

The next time he looks out the bakery window, the car is gone.

\---

That evening, while Ryan's going through the emails as usual, he interrupts Patrick's reverie with a "Hey, that Toews guy sent you an email."

"He did?" Patrick asks, bolting upright.

"Yeah. Uh, he says, _Hi Patrick, thanks so much for -_ "

"Wait," Patrick says, flushing red - god knows what Jonny put in his email. "Don't - don't read that. Can you just forward it to my personal email?"

Ryan's eyebrows shoot upwards, into his (unfairly glorious, in Patrick's opinion) hair. "To your _personal_ email?" he asks. Patrick never gets work emails, or correspondence related to the bakery, forwarded.

"Yes," he says, hoping his face isn't burning up. "Do it now, please."

Once he gets it, he opens it, and he's glad Ryan didn't read it, because god, Jonny has no sense of discretion or subtlety at all.

 

_Hi Patrick,_

_Thanks so much for the pastries - they were incredible. So delicious, in fact, that I actually ate them all in one go and ended up not being able to eat dinner after that. You're really amazing at what you do, it's not a surprise to me that you've won all those awards and accolades you have._

_I don't have your personal email address or your cell number, so I hope it's okay that I had to send this email to the bakery. But I just wanted to let you know that I'm really glad we got the chance to talk a little today. We used to be so close, and despite everything, I honestly hope we can be friends again, if nothing more._

_Jonny_

 

To Patrick's credit, he thinks on it a good long while that night in bed, instead of replying to Jonny's email right away - or trashing it, for that matter.

The fact is that seeing Jonny, talking to him, makes Patrick feel like he's reopening old scars; but at the same time, what he had with Jonny was good. It was so good, and that - at least Patrick can appreciate and treasure that, if nothing else.

Plus, Jonny was right - he'd been the one to leave, and he's not proud of it, but he didn't - couldn't bring himself to tell Jonny _why_. It wasn't the most unselfish decision of Patrick's life, but maybe - he kind of owes it to Jonny to be nice to him, at least.

All in all, he thinks, the least he can do is be happy for Jonny, and yeah, maybe be friends again. There's really no better way to finally get over this frankly pathetic heartache that he's already dragged out and stretched thin for eight years, than to watch Jonny marry someone else, and move on properly from there; and even be chill enough about that to remain on friendly terms with Jonny, right?

Bolstered by this sudden conviction, he grabs his phone and replies to Jonny's email.

 

_Hi Jonny,_

_Glad you enjoyed the pastries._

_This is my personal email, and my number is 312-181-1988._

_Come by the bakery whenever you want - you can check out the progress of your cake or try out more of the pastries if you like._

_Patrick_

 

He drops his phone next to his pillow and sinks back into his pillow, feeling unreasonably pleased with himself, and a little hopeful. It's a little scary, opening himself and his life to Jonny again; but he's totally managed to send a nice, friendly, civil email to Jonny, and maybe - just maybe - this can finally put to bed all the resentment and pain that he's stored away in his heart over all these years, and allow them to be friends again.

Of course he can do this and come out the other end unscathed, he thinks, blinking into the darkness of his bedroom. Easy. Too easy.

\---

**October 2006**

Jonny asks him out for dinner just three weeks after that first meeting: three weeks where they've spent hours and hours together each day, studying together in the library, or playing games in Jonny's single room just a block over from Patrick's dorm; or simply hanging out on campus over cups of coffee and strolling under lush trees that are slowly starting to turn colours.

Patrick feels like he's in some fucking romcom or something, with fall in the air and hanging out with Jonny during the day, before going back to the room he shares with Marcus and still continuing to text Jonny or message him online. It makes him feel a little lightheaded and off-kilter, but also deliriously, ridiculously _happy_. He doesn't even remember what they talk about when they're together; just the way Jonny looks at him sometimes, all warm and fond, and how Jonny feels when they're sitting out on the grass at the quad and Jonny's pressed all against him, a long line of heat and muscle.

So it doesn't come as a surprise at all when Jonny asks him out; Patrick just feels - relieved, like this is something he's been waiting for and expecting for a long while, like this is the natural culmination of the past weeks of almost constant togetherness. They're at their usual spot on the quad, surrounded by textbooks and papers, Patrick leaning against Jonny and delighting in the solidity of his body, how he doesn't shift even when Patrick leans his full weight against him.

"Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?" Jonny asks. He sounds casual, maybe verging on nonchalant, even; but Patrick's not fooled. There's a tense little note in Jonny's voice, and he can almost feel Jonny holding his breath, with Patrick's back propped against the side of his ribcage.

"Is this a date?" Patrick asks boldly; he _knows_ it is, but he wants to hear Jonny say it. "Or just _dinner_?"

The curls at the back of his neck ruffle as Jonny laughs softly, his breath puffing over them. "Yes, it's a date," he says. "And you knew that already, but if you really want me to ask nicely - will you go out on a date with me, your majesty?"

Patrick elbows him and he sputters; but he's smiling, grinning so widely his cheeks ache. "Yes, obviously, you idiot."

"Then it's a date," Jonny says, like a fucking _dork_ , and Patrick elbows him again, but they're both laughing; and it eventually devolves into a bout of wrestling while their papers get scattered around them. Jonny pins him to the grass after a while, making Patrick struggle half-heartedly under his weight.

"Get off me," he says, laughing up at Jonny's face, pushing at his shoulders. "You're heavy as fuck."

But Jonny doesn't move, just gazes down at Patrick, and for the first time Patrick registers that their faces are so, so close together. Jonny's eyes are very round and dark as they look down at him, and Patrick can't help but glance down at Jonny's mouth, a mere few inches over his own, and he thinks that he can simply just push himself up, catch Jonny's mouth easily and -

Jonny says quietly, "I'm glad you said yes", and Patrick drags his eyes back up. Jonny pushes off his body to sit up, biceps rippling as he does it, and Patrick's a little disappointed but there'll be plenty of time for kissing later, after their date, he thinks.

"I wouldn't have said anything else," he says to Jonny, and means it.

\---

It's stupid, but he's a little nervous for their date - which is weird because he's never nervous around Jonny and this date feels like a natural continuation of this thing they have, rather than an actual first date; but he's still anxious anyway, worried he'll somehow do or say something wrong and fuck it up. Jonny didn't tell him where they'd be going, just that he'd pick Patrick up from his dorm, so he enlists Sharpy's help. Sharpy's an asshole, but the one thing he has going for him is that he's got an actual sense of style - something Patrick's hopelessly lacking in.

"Oh god," Sharpy complains, shoulders-deep inside Patrick's wardrobe. "All this fucking plaid. Patrick, no one wears plaid anymore."

"Shut up," Patrick says, face flaming. "Just - find me something that's going to look good, okay. And nice."

"All you have are t-shirts," Sharpy says. "Jesus, what's this - a fucking _margaritaville_ shirt?"

Patrick snatches it out of his hands and tosses it onto the bed. "Can we just concentrate on finding me something good?"

"There's nothing good," Sharpy grumbles. "I'd lend you something of mine to wear, if you weren't a fucking pipsqueak. Oh, wait - okay, these pants look promising, go put them on so I can see how they look on you."

He completely ignores Patrick's outraged noises, still going through Patrick's clothes and messing up the neatly folded stacks, and Patrick slinks off to change, grumbling under his breath. When he comes out, Sharpy and Marcus are standing together, Marcus holding something blue in his hands, but Sharpy turns to look him over and nods approvingly.

"Thank god these pants fit you well," he says. "They hug your butt, which is good, because you want Jonny to notice your butt."

"Jesus Christ, Sharpy," Patrick says, regretting ever asking him to help with this.

"And this," Sharpy continues like he hasn't spoken, taking the blue - shirt, Patrick can see that now, from Marcus, and handing it to him. "This is Marcus', but it's kinda tight for him so it might actually fit you. He says he's happy to lend it to you."

"As long as you don't get any stains on it," Marcus says.

"I fucking hate you both," Patrick says, scowling; but when he pulls the shirt on, he has to admit he looks pretty good in it. The deep blue of the shirt brings out his eyes, makes them look bluer somehow,

Sharpy fusses over him a little - "don't button it all the way up, jesus, what kind of nerd are you, Kaner?" - but eventually he declares that Patrick looks passable, and even Marcus gives him a nod and a fistbump.

"Blue is totally your colour," Sharpy says, satisfied. "Remember, call me half an hour before Jonny picks you up - I'll fix your hair so you don't drown it in gel like you usually do."

"I don't drown it," Patrick protests, but Sharpy rolls his eyes.

"Honestly, I don't even know why Jonathan Toews picked you, when he could have any dude on this campus," he says.

And - okay, Sharpy's not wrong, Patrick knows that he's not anything special; he's not tall, or particularly built, he's not outstandingly handsome the way Jonny is - there are tons of hot guys on campus like Marcus, for one. And yet, Jonny picked him.

 _Why would Jonny choose him?_ The thought drops into his mind like a stone into a pond, rippling outwards; but Patrick takes a deep breath, blinks the thought away. He's not going to let anything ruin this first date. Jonny likes him, and that's - it's as simple as that.

\---

Of all the cars Patrick expects Jonny to pick him up in, this is the last one he'd have thought of: a sleek black Mercedes turning into the driveway of his dorm block, people actually turning around to gawk at it. Jonny pulls up in front of him, smiling broadly, like an eighteen-year-old in a fucking Mercedes S class is _normal_.

"Come on," he calls to Patrick, and Patrick remembers to snap his mouth shut, because he's pretty certain he's gaping.

"You - did you borrow someone's car?" he asks, not moving from the front steps.

Jonny's brow furrows. "No? This is my car."

"You're a freshman," Patrick says. He feels dumbfounded, but he can't seem to move, just standing there staring at Jonny and this - this magnificent, _expensive_ car in disbelief.

There are more people turning to stare at the both of them and that attention-grabbing car, and Jonny glances at them.

"Get in, come on," he says, and Patrick swallows, hurrying to open the car door, before Jonny drives away, leaving a handful of gaping people in their wake.

"What do you mean this is your car?" Patrick asks.

Jonny turns red, rubbing a little self-consciously at the back of his neck. "I mean, it's not a big deal - my parents got it for me when I came to Chicago. I guess, okay, it's my parents' car, if that makes you feel better, since they're the ones who bought it."

Patrick doesn't know much about Jonny's family - he doesn't mention them much, except that they still live in Canada, and travel a lot, and run some sort of business; Patrick doesn't know what they do either, but he gets the impression it's some kind of family business. "Your parents' company must be doing well," he says.

Jonny makes a sound that sounds like a half-choke, half-laugh. "Yeah, kinda," he says. "Hey - you look really good, you know."

Patrick flushes self-consciously, looking down at the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. "I - thanks."

"Blue's your colour," Jonny says, echoing what Sharpy said. They stop at a stoplight, and Jonny turns to look at him, slowly dragging his eyes over Patrick's face and body. "Brings out the colour of your eyes."

"That's what Sharpy said," Patrick says. "I confess - I don't even own anything this nice. I had to borrow this shirt from Marcus."

Jonny just laughs as the light turns green and he guides the car forward. "We'll just have to get you some good shirts, then. You look amazing like this, Pat."

Patrick doesn't have the heart to tell him he can't afford to get nice shirts. Instead he turns his attention to how Jonny looks. He's handsome, he's always handsome, but he's dressed up nicely too, in black slacks and a pale dove-grey shirt that is unbuttoned a little too unnecessarily low. Not that he's complaining, Patrick thinks, letting his eyes rest on the exposed patch of smooth golden skin below Jonny's throat and clavicles.

Jonny drives them to Gibson's; it makes Patrick sit up in alarm when the restaurant comes into view. "We're not - that's not where we're going for dinner, is it?" he asks; there's a knot of dread settling in his stomach as Jonny slows to a stop right outside. Fuck - he'd thought Jonny would take them to a diner or something. Even an out-of-towner poor kid from the boondocks like him has heard of Gibson's Steakhouse - it's frequented by Blackhawks and Cubs players, of course he knows of it - but he can't fucking afford to pay for himself at a place like this.

Jonny hops out and opens the door for him, like he's a - girl, christ, but Patrick stays in his seat. "Jonny," he hisses, suddenly very aware of the valet who's materialised behind Jonny, waiting for them. "Jonny, can we - go someplace else?"

"Why?" Jonny asks, looking genuinely bewildered. "You told me you liked steak, and Gibson's one of the best steakhouses in the city."

Patrick fidgets, not sure how to tell Jonny that he just - can't afford to eat at restaurants like these. "Jonny, I - "

Jonny's face suddenly clears, as if he's figured out what Patrick's thinking. "Hey, don't worry," he says quietly, putting a hand on Patrick's shoulder and squeezing gently. "I asked you out, so I'll get it this time, yeah? And next time, you can choose where you want to go, and buy me dinner back."

Patrick's too stuck on the 'next time' to protest. He's still in a bit of a daze as Jonny takes his hand and tugs him out of the car, slipping a tip to the valet as he does so; and he leads Patrick through the restaurant like he's been here often, not letting go of his hand, and Patrick clings to him like he's a lifeline, because - fuck, he's never been somewhere so nice before in his entire life. There are nice restaurants in Buffalo, but Patrick's never set foot in one of them - and anyway, he's pretty sure whatever Buffalo can conjure up wouldn’t match the cosmopolitan vibrance of what Chicago has.

He winces when he sees the prices in the menus, but Jonny's gently encouraging, pointing out what he likes best here, what's good and what's not so good. "Have you - do you come here often?" Patrick asks.

Jonny shrugs. "A few times."

Patrick has _no idea_ how a college freshman like Jonny drives a Mercedes and eats at places like Gibson's, where a cut of beef costs sixty fucking dollars. It's obvious now that Jonny's well-off, but exactly how wealthy he is - Patrick can't even imagine, and he's a little scared to even think about it. Patrick's scholarship and grants include the meal plan at the university, and he can't fathom paying that kind of money for one meal. That could probably feed him for three days, at least.

He tries to order the cheapest thing on the menu - a broiled hamburger - but Jonny won't hear of it, insists on him having a steak - "they do such good steaks here, and you told me you love steak!" - and eventually he lets himself be persuaded into getting the same thing as Jonny, a filet mignon.

The steak turns out beautifully done - Jonny wasn't lying, the restaurant serves excellent food - and Jonny's so good at distracting him, putting him at ease, talking to him about the latest video game he's picked up and is excited to try with Patrick, like they're back in school instead of sitting in an expensive restaurant in the heart of Chicago on their first date. When the bill comes, Jonny slides a credit card into the billfold, covering the total so Patrick can't see it, but he doesn't look the least bit bothered.

Jonny's credit card is a _black AMEX_. Patrick feels a little faint.

He thinks this strange, unreal night is finally going to be done and Jonny's going to drive them back to campus, but Jonny takes his hand again when they're waiting for the valet to bring his car. "Wanna go for a walk?" he asks.

The air is crisp with fall, cool but not yet chilly, so Patrick nods. "Sure."

Jonny drives them to Millennium Park and they take a long, slow stroll through it; Jonny doesn't stop holding his hand, and Patrick finds that he doesn't want Jonny to stop. Jonny's hand is huge and warm and dry in his, and it makes Patrick feel - grounded, secure.

He thinks he could stay like this forever; just walking through Chicago with Jonny's hand in his, instead of thinking about - Jonny's car, or the restaurants he frequents, or things like that, because it doesn't take away from who Jonny is to him: someone incredibly special, who somehow has the ability to make Patrick feel special too, like Jonny can't see or hear anyone else when he's looking at Patrick.

"Hey," Jonny says. "I'm glad you agreed to go out with me."

"I told you, I wouldn't have said no," Patrick says, glancing at him. Jonny's cheeks are pink from the wind, and he's smiling, looking so pleased, that it makes Patrick smile too.

"You realise this means we're officially like, dating, right?" Jonny asks.

"After _one_ date?" Patrick says; his heart is so light it could float on air, but he can't help but tease Jonny, push back a little against him. "You're very confident, aren't you, Toews?"

"The first of many dates," Jonny says, grinning at him. "Unless you'd rather not date me - "

"I hate you," Patrick says.

"No you don't," Jonny replies as the Bean comes into view in front of them. Patrick hasn't seen it yet, and his breath stops in his throat as he sees the bright lights and buildings of Chicago reflected in the silver surface of the huge sculpture. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Patrick says, awestruck; but when he turns, Jonny's looking at him, not at the Bean, and the unabashed admiration in his eyes makes him flush. Jonny steps towards him, until they're chest-to-chest, so close Patrick can smell the scent of his aftershave and feel Jonny's breath tickling his lips.

"Really beautiful," Jonny says, his voice barely above a whisper. He cups a hand over Patrick's cheek, thumb stroking under his chin, lifting Patrick's face up towards his; Patrick feels himself go slack at Jonny's gentle touch, his eyelids fluttering.

"Jonny," he says; he reaches up to rest his hands on Jonny's shoulders. They're broad with muscle, flexing under his fingers.

"Can I?" Jonny asks.

Patrick doesn't say anything; he lets his eyes fall shut, surges forward until their lips meet, and then they're kissing, standing in front of the Bean, Jonny's hands clasped on the small of his back and his mouth hot and hungry against Patrick's.

Patrick hopes that's a good enough answer.

\---

**February 2018**

Patrick launches the Ultimate Kane Souffle - a cocoa souffle that remains risen and never sinks, with a molten chocolate centre, embedded in a square tower of orange-scented brioche - on Valentine's Day; he can't help being nervous, like he always is before every major launch, even though press and social media have been highly positive. He invited a number of food writers and critics to a preview tasting of the souffle the week before, and the superlatives heaped upon it went some way to calm his nerves; but now, staying overnight at the bakery to prepare for the launch, where they can see when the line starts forming outside at 3 a.m. despite the bitter winter chill, his anxiety has returned. Patrick's fingers are icy cold even with the heat in the bakery.

"Jesus," Patrick says, "I didn't think people would start lining up this early. This is like the Cronut launch all over again."

"I know," Nick says, looking delighted. "Sharpy did some good PR for us, didn't he?"

"He did," Patrick agrees; Sharpy, now a partner at a PR company in Chicago, took on the bakery as one of his accounts when barely anyone had heard of it or of Patrick, and within a year turned Patrick's pastries into one of America's most sought-after, most-Instagrammed foods. Patrick's under no illusions about his own creative talents, but he'd probably have taken a lot longer than a year to make his name, if Sharpy hadn't taken over the marketing and PR.

The launch of the Cronut was a _fever_ ; there were literal crowds of people lined up outside the bakery every morning, people starting _fights_ in the line when they got sold out for the day, celebrities posting pictures of Cronuts on Instagram and Twitter when they managed to get their hands on one, and all the subsequent press only fanned the flames of the fervour. Sharpy, of course, had taken everything he could and spun it into even more good press - to this day, the Cronut is still the best-selling pastry in all his bakeries.

Patrick sincerely hopes the Ultimate Kane Souffle will incite yet another feverish clamour the way the Cronut did; and judging from social media reactions to all his press releases and interviews, it most likely will.

"Okay,' he says, staring out of the bakery where the line snakes past the block, "we've got a lot to do tonight, guys, so buckle up. Brandon, can you get all the paper cups we have out of the storeroom, start filling them up with hot coffee and handing them out to the people outside? We don't need anyone freezing while they wait for their souffle."

"Got it," Brandon says.

"Kendall, go through the inventory please, make sure we have a good buffer for the next week."

"Okay," Kendall replies, giving him a thumbs up.

Patrick continues to relay instructions and move from station to station for the next few hours - making sure everything's in place for the launch, testing batches of the souffle, checking the time until the bakery opens at 7 a.m. His team works like a well-oiled machine, every cog in the bakery moving as it should, and by the time he opens, he's ready; he makes sure he's within sight behind the counter, politely greeting everyone who comes in. There are cameras _everywhere_ ; Patrick obligingly takes selfies with a few delighted customers, souffles in hand, knowing that they'll be up on Instagram and Twitter in no time. Several influencers sent by Sharpy's agency turn up as well, and a number of reporters arrive in the very midst of the crush. Patrick braces himself, makes sure they all get to speak to him, and by 10 a.m. they've completely sold out.

He finally sends his exhausted team home at noon when the afternoon shift comes in; he's feeling utterly run down himself from the frantic lead up to the launch and then the frenzy of the launch itself, but he's still got things to do: a phone interview with the Tribune, running checks on tomorrow's batch of the souffle, and the first test bake for Jonny's cake, just to see if the sponge and frosting will turn out right.

He's thinking about it when his phone rings; he picks it up without looking at the phone screen, thinking it's the food reporter from the Tribune, but instead Jonny's voice sounds down the line. "Hey, Patrick," he says, and Patrick sits upright.

"Hey," he replies casually. "What's up?"

He and Jonny have texted several times since Patrick gave him his number, mainly innocuous shit like updates on the cake (which, Patrick doesn't really have that many updates for him anyway, apart from how he and his team have already started working on moulding the gumpaste flowers), but this is the first time Jonny's called him.

"Just wanted to say congratulations," Jonny says; he sounds warm and happy, and Patrick kind of hates how it makes a little wave of heat drift out from his chest to his fingers and toes. "I was checking out your social media, and everyone's going insane over your Ultimate Souffle. Have you seen?"

"Not yet," Patrick admits, wondering why Jonny's looking at his social media - does Jonny actually follow the bakery's accounts? Does Jonny even have an Instagram? Patrick realises that he doesn't know. "I haven't really, uh, had the time to sit down? Until now."

"Shit, Pat," Jonny says. "That's - okay, I hope you're at least sitting down now. And maybe getting some food."

"I'll eat something soon," Patrick says. "I'm kind of vibrating from too much coffee right now. We stayed up all night in the bakery prepping for the launch."

"That - really sucks," Jonny says, and Patrick's surprised at how understanding he sounds. "But I get it - a new launch is always a lot of work. You going home anytime soon? Get some rest?"

"Not yet," Patrick says. "I've got a couple other things to do. I'm waiting for a call from the Tribune, and I need to do a test bake for your cake, and - "

Jonny makes a noise. "Forget about that. You should just go home after your call. And grab some sleep."

"I can't," Patrick says, frowning - why the hell is Jonny being weird? "It's February - do you know how stretched for time we are, if we're going to finish your cake on time?"

"I don't care," Jonny says.

"What do you mean, you don't care? It's your _wedding cake_ ," Patrick says incredulously, and Jonny falls abruptly silent.

"I - yeah, I mean, of course I care," Jonny says at last. "I just - trust you, to get it done. Anyway, I was actually calling to ask if you'd like to meet up for dinner tonight - but now I think it's better for you to go home and get some sleep instead."

"Dinner?" Patrick asks, and he's definitely not able to stop the rising inflection of shock in his voice.

"Yeah, just to congratulate you on the launch."

"It's Valentine's Day," Patrick says. "Shouldn't you be having dinner with your - Elliot? Mr. Worthington, I mean."

There's another long silence from Jonny - so long that Patrick actually starts wondering if he's hung up - but then when Jonny speaks again, he sounds oddly shaky. "I - fuck. I forgot that."

"You forgot that today is Valentine's Day," Patrick repeats.

"I - yeah. Shit. And - Elliot's not here anyway, he's in Miami. Vacationing with friends." He breathes a short little laugh. "Maybe I need some sleep myself."

"Yeah, you sound like it," Patrick says. His head is spinning; he's not sure if Jonny's lying about forgetting what today is - when they were together, every fucking Valentine's Day was a production. Even though Patrick generally hates the overpriced, crowded restaurants on the day, the commercialization and hype of it all - Jonny always pulled out all the stops for him. He can't imagine Jonny dating someone, being _engaged_ to someone, without making Valentine's Day a huge deal. Or not even being with his - person, today.

If Jonny's lying - that means he fucking chose a day when Elliot's not in town, a day celebrating couplehood and love, to call Patrick up and ask him out for dinner.

What the actual fuck.

But he'd sounded genuinely shocked and shaky when Patrick had reminded him of the date, and Patrick - even after all these years, he thinks he's still able to tell when Jonny's not telling the truth; and Jonny's never been a liar anyway.

"Why didn't you go to Miami with Elliot then?" Patrick asks. "Could have spent a nice romantic day with him there." He hates how - brittle and curt he sounds, like he's going to break apart at any moment.

"I couldn't leave," Jonny says, and he at least sounds like he's gotten whatever shock he had under control; his voice is a lot steadier now. "Too much to do here."

"Yeah, preparing for a wedding in just a couple of months isn't easy," Patrick says. Then he shuts his eyes and thinks to himself: _fuck, just stop needling Jonny about his fucking wedding. You sound like a jealous ex._

Which is exactly what he is. Christ. He's - jealous. It's been eight years, and he's so fucking jealous he could choke on it and go blind. Fucking Sharpy was right. He's not over Jonny, never has been.

He almost misses it when Jonny says, "No, just work."

And really, what the hell is Jonny trying to do here? Calling him up for dinner, wanting to be _friends_ ; always avoiding any conversation about his wedding or his fiancé or his cake, the cake that he commissioned Patrick to do for him - what are they doing?

"Jonny," he says quietly, hardly even aware that he's spilling his thoughts, he's feeling so upended and out of it. "Jonny, what are you doing? What are _we_ doing?"

"I'm not," Jonny says instantly. "We're not doing anything. I said - I want to be friends. That's all. I wouldn't - I would never - "

Patrick's seized by a sudden wave of nausea that clogs up his throat. Fuck. He's a - what kind of terrible person is he, anyway? Obviously Jonny's not going to fucking _date_ him, or whatever - he's engaged, and Patrick's just - projecting all over Jonny if he thinks so.

"Yeah," Patrick says, trying to breathe easily. "I didn't - I mean, yeah, friends. And maybe - maybe I can do dinner another time. But not today. It's not appropriate, Jonny."

"Yeah, no, I get it, you're right," Jonny says, sounding relieved. "And - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression or whatever. I'm just really glad for you."

"Thanks," Patrick says. His phone beeps at that moment, signalling another incoming call; when he checks the number, he doesn't recognize it, so it's probably the Tribune reporter. "Uh, look, I've got a call coming in, it's from the Trib, so - talk to you another time, yeah."

"Yeah, sure," Jonny says. "Just - get a good rest today. And I'm really proud of you, Patrick."

Patrick fumbles his phone in fingers that have suddenly gone nerveless, nearly dropping it. "Uh, yeah, thanks," he says. "Bye."

He switches over to the other call - it's the reporter all right - and Patrick goes through the motions of the interview, saying all the right things, giving all the right sound bites; but he barely knows what he's doing. All he can think of is Jonny, telling him he's proud of him; Jonny telling him he _wouldn't_ , that they're going to be just friends.

Patrick ought to be glad. Instead he feels like someone's just reached into his ribcage and scooped out a piece of his heart and replaced it with this choking, awful jealousy.

The last time he felt like this was when he left Jonny.

The interview's over in twenty minutes, thankfully, and once he's hung up Patrick folds over his desk, lets his head fall on his arms. There's a pounding starting up in the back of his skull that he recognizes as a fatigue headache, and he's just - he'd thought being friendly with Jonny might help, that it might finally help him to get over him, but right now, he's really not sure if it's helping or hurting.

So he does what he does best when his head is hurting and he doesn't want to think: he throws himself into his work. He does a quick inspection of the bakery and checks in with the team, the crowd now thinned out since both the Cronuts and Ultimate Souffles are sold out for the day, and then he heads into the kitchen to start the test bake of Jonny's cake.

Baking has always been therapeutic for him; it started with him hanging around his mother in the kitchen as a child, fascinated by her quick, steady hands as she kneaded and mixed his favourite pies and cakes. When he first came to Chicago, he brought along his old, battered notebook of recipes, handed down from his mom, annotated with his own tweaks and changes, but he didn’t have a chance to bake anything for a year, until he and Jonny got their apartment.

He still remembers how Jonny looked then when he made what he'd thought was the simplest, quickest thing he could bake on their first night in the apartment to celebrate moving in, the way Jonny's eyes widened when he took his first bite. "Jesus, that's the best fucking brownie I've ever had," Jonny said, his mouth smeared with chocolate crumbs from a square of Patrick's Nutella and Bailey's brownie. "Fuck my workout. I need one more square of that, babe."

"It's just a dumb brownie," Patrick had said, laughing. "It's not that great."

"Are you joking? It's fucking amazing," Jonny replied, looking like he had a piece of paradise in his mouth.

Jonny was always encouraging about his baking. Always willing to taste whatever new thing Patrick dreamed up. When Patrick made up his mind to go to culinary school after university, the first thing Jonny told him was, "You were made for the pastry arts. I'm so proud of you."

He's thinking of that - Jonny saying he's proud of him, both then and now - as he falls into the mechanical routine of baking a simple sponge cake; he's done it so many times that he moves on autopilot by now. He gets out the folder with the notes and designs and recipes for Jonny's cake first, before he begins with measuring out all the ingredients, lining them up neatly on the counter.

By the time he's finished with all the measuring, beating and whipping, he's feeling a little better. He pours the batter into a cake tin round, tapping it several times on the counter to even it out, before he slides it into the oven; then he starts to work on the eggnog buttercream. It creams up beautifully, glossy and smooth and smelling warm and boozy; he dips a tiny spoon in to taste, and it's perfect, the cognac giving it just a little bit of a kick, the cream itself sweet but light and not at all cloying or sticky.

The sponge, when he pulls it out of the oven, looks and smells about as good as Patrick had hoped it could be; he lets it cool before he frosts it with the buttercream.

Alex wanders in right then, coming over to stand next to him just as Patrick finishes levelling the frosting out with an offset spatula. "Came in to see if you need any help, boss," he says.

Patrick shakes his head. "No, I'm done with the test bake - but you can taste it. Tell me if you think we can go with this for the Worthington wedding, or if we'll need to tweak it."

He cuts a small slice for Alex and another for himself, and then holds his slice up towards Alex like a mock toast. "Bon appetit," he says, and knocks the cake lightly against Alex's before taking a bite.

It's - good, about as good as a test bake can get; even with Patrick's notoriously finicky palate and high standards, he thinks he nailed it the first time. _I'm so proud of you_ , Jonny's voice echoes in his mind, and for a moment he actually glances around, thinking of Jonny saying it to him in their old apartment, and earlier over the phone.

Alex nods, licking the crumbs off his fingers. "I think you've got it," he says. "This is so good, I can't imagine them not being happy with this."

"I hope so," Patrick says, smiling; the ache in his heart hasn't quite dissipated, but he already feels lighter and a little happier.


	2. Chapter 2

 

**August 2007**

Jonny would probably have gone for some ridiculous, ostentatious, over-the-top three-bedroom condo in the Gold Coast if Patrick had let him; as it is, he puts his foot down and tells him to stick to looking only at studio apartments instead. It's bad enough that he won't be able to afford even his half of the rent, that Jonny - or rather Jonny's parents - are going to pay for it all; the thought of it makes him feel frankly ill and more than a little useless. Jonny's assured him that his parents don't mind or care; but Patrick's basically lived with him in his single on campus the past year ever since they got together, has seen and heard him speak on the phone often enough to his parents, and they've never asked to speak to Patrick, not once, not even when they know he's there with Jonny.

So he shies away from going along with Jonny when the realtor working for his parents sets up viewings and lets Jonny make all the decisions; he can't shake the uncomfortable feeling that he's nothing more than an interloper, living off Jonny's largesse and his parents' generosity.

Jonny loves him, he knows he does, but it's shitty when he has no money of his own and his boyfriend doesn't seem to fucking _get_ that it feels horrible to have to depend on him for even something as basic as a place to live, much less all the expensive dates Jonny likes to take him on: the nice restaurants and new clothes, the club level seats at Bears games, the VIP box owned by the Toews-Gilbert Group at the United Center for Blackhawks games. There's a little calculator at the back of Patrick's mind that can't stop totalling up all the money Jonny spends on him and thinking with cold dread: _I'll never be able to pay him back no matter what I do for him._

He'd actually suggested, tentatively, that he could continue living on campus while Jonny moves into a place of his own, but Jonny had vetoed the idea right away, and that had been that - there's no changing Jonny's mind once he's decided on something. But Patrick tries to compromise; and eventually he manages to talk Jonny into choosing a one-bedroom condo on the West Side over an insanely expensive and overly large penthouse apartment in Lincoln Park, much to his relief.

The apartment is spacious and airy, with a balcony, and the building itself is separated from the others on either side of it, giving it some modicum of privacy. Patrick can't help but love it the moment he walks in; Jonny, thank god, had it furnished sensibly, nothing overly luxurious or opulent. Just a homely, cozy apartment that he thinks he could easily call home, especially with Jonny in it too.

The best part of the apartment is the open-concept kitchen, with a large island and a ton of counter space, and the amazing state-of-the-art oven built in next to the fridge. He's staring at it, utterly delighted, when Jonny comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to the soft curls at the back of his neck.

"You like it?" he asks. "I made sure to look for a place with a big kitchen for you."

"Fuckin' love it," Patrick says. He turns blindly, searching for Jonny's mouth, pouring all of his gratitude into a deep, slow kiss. "This is the best room of the whole apartment."

Jonny laughs into their kiss, his fingers tightening on Patrick's hips. "You haven't seen the bedroom yet," he murmurs, pressing himself into the small of Patrick's back, in a way that leaves Patrick in no doubt of what he's thinking.

Patrick turns in the circle of Jonny's arms, until Jonny's hands are resting on his ass, pushing his thigh against Jonny's half-hard cock. He looks up through his lashes at Jonny, licking his lower lip, relishing the way Jonny's eyes go dark and hungry. "Yeah? Why don't you show it to me then?"

The bedroom's painted a soft blue, with heavy light-blocking curtains - good for Jonny, because their dorm room didn't have curtains, and the morning sunlight always dragged Jonny awake far earlier than he wanted to be, leaving him grumpy and tired in the mornings. Jonny's got them a brand new bed - a queen, not a king - but all Patrick can think, through Jonny's hands running up and down his sides, is how much he wants to be in it right the fuck now with Jonny.

"Okay," he says decisively, pushing away from Jonny and pulling his t-shirt over his head. They're both a little sweaty from the summer heat and the move, and it's probably a bad idea to fuck on their new bed and new sheets without showering first, but Patrick wants Jonny right now, in the worst way. "Clothes off. You're going to fuck me, in our new apartment, and you're going to make it good."

Jonny _smirks_ , the asshole. "When do I not make it good?" he says, and, well, he's not wrong about that.

Jonny, the fucking tease, makes him wait for it; he puts him on his hands and knees first and eats him out until his whole body's straining for it, his breath coming in great heaving sobs, his cock hard and dripping onto the sheets. He's worked wet and open and loose by the time Jonny finally slides in, his cock pushing into Patrick inch by inexorable inch, and Patrick just relaxes into it, face mashed into the pillow. He's fisting the sheets, probably rucking them up beyond repair, thinking hazily that they're new; but then Jonny's cock slides over his prostate, and the resultant bolt of white-hot pleasure in his brain drives away whatever coherent thought he has.

He comes with a shout, muscles locking tight around Jonny as his cock shoots pulse after pulse of come; behind him, Jonny's hips stutter as he shoves himself as deep into Patrick as he can go, and a moment later Patrick feels, through the waves of pleasure wracking his body, Jonny's cock swell inside him just before he comes as well.

They sink into the bed, covered in sweat and come, breathing hard; and Patrick starts laughing, he can't help it. He tucks his face into Jonny's chest and giggles, feeling a little loopy. Jonny curls his hand around the back of his neck and drops kisses on the top of his head.

"You're happy, right?" he asks. Like he can't feel Patrick laughing against him, nosing into his neck, while Jonny's come is still trickling out of him.

"I am, I promise," Patrick says. And he really is - despite his misgivings about their living situation and Jonny's parents and the disparity in social status between Jonny and himself - all of that pales in comparison with having a _home_ with Jonny. He's nineteen years old and he's fortunate enough to have a home with someone who loves him with everything he has; and that alone, he thinks, is enough for him.

"And I told you, I'd make it good," Jonny says; he sounds so smug that it makes Patrick collapse into another fit of helpless giggles.

"Yeah, you did," he says finally. "But the new sheets, Jonny. We ruined them."

Jonny shrugs. "There's a spare new set somewhere."

"Well, since this set is already dirty," Patrick says slowly, and lets the end of his sentence trail off as he reaches up to run the tips of his index and middle fingers along Jonny's lower lip.

Jonny narrows his eyes and sucks his fingers into his mouth, licking over his knuckles. "I like the way you think," he says. He strokes down Patrick's spine and over the curve of his ass, slipping his fingers into the cleft, where it's sticky and wet with lube and spit and come, and rubs his thumb over Patrick's swollen, oversensitive rim. Patrick shudders and whimpers a little, clinging to Jonny; but he lifts his leg to sling it over Jonny's hip anyway, opening himself wider, giving Jonny more access.

Jonny takes full advantage; they end up not getting out of bed for the next four hours, and Patrick's loose-limbed and sore and so relaxed he could fall asleep on his feet later when he's baking brownies for them - baking for the first time in more than a year, in fact - but he's _happy_.

And really, that's all that matters.

\---

**March 2018**

February's been a good month - the Ultimate Souffle is a roaring success, Patrick gets interviewed several times about it, and makes a quick trip to San Francisco to check in on his bakery and catch up with the team there. Frank Bruni writes an op-ed for the New York Times calling him the top pastry chef in the country, every event he's catering is going smoothly, and he's making good progress on the decorations for Jonny's cake.

Obviously, it's going to inevitably come crashing down; so of course Patrick gets a call from Elliot, unfortunately on the day he returns to Chicago and is back in the bakery.

"So I was looking at the photographs you sent us, for the test bake," Elliot says, "and I think I want a few changes made."

"What sort of changes?" Patrick asks; he's a little annoyed, because Elliot always manages to rile him up somehow, but he unlocks his iPad and pulls up his Notes app anyway. It's still his job to give his paying clients what they want, after all; and in any case, if Elliot actually deigns to tell him exactly what changes he wants, it can only help his work.

"The sponge," Elliot says. "It's yellow."

"Yeah," Patrick says. "It comes from a vegetable-based food colouring, and a pale yellow like that fits well with ivory fondant and the eggnog cream."

"I don't like it," Elliot says dismissively. "I want a different colour - maybe white? Can you make the sponge snow-white?"

"I could," Patrick says slowly, "but it's going to look very plain when cut. The frosting won't stand out, and everything will just blend into the fondant. A sponge of a different colour will make the layers stand out and when the cake is sliced and served, it'll be more visually appealing."

"Okay, then maybe - use pink," Elliot says. "A _nice_ pink, baby pink or something, I don't want anything too loud. It needs to look classy."

Patrick rolls his eyes. He'd personally go with pale yellow over baby pink any day - but he dutifully makes a note in his iPad. "Sure, I can do that. Anything else?"

"The flowers on the cake, the weird paste ones or whatever - "

"Gum paste," Patrick says patiently. "It's just icing sugar with a stabilizing agent, like tylose."

"Yeah, those. You originally accented them with yellow, right?"

"Yes, to match the sponge, but if you want a colour change for that, we'll adjust the colours of the flowers as well."

"Okay, except that I think if the flowers are just pink, they're going to be kind of plain," Elliot says. "Can you paint them with, I don't know, different colours apart from just pink? I'm thinking lavender and pale blue and yellow - just, I want a lot of colours. Everything ivory and pink is boring."

"Yeah, that's fine," Patrick says with an inward sigh. "I'll work on another test cake and send that to you and Mr. Toews."

"Great," Elliot says. "Oh, one more thing - get that done soon, please. Jon's going to be in Montréal in a couple of days for some business thing, and I'm going to LA for my wedding suit fitting, so if you don't send it by this week you're not going to finish this in time if we want any more changes."

Patrick deeply longs to tell him _then maybe you shouldn't be rushing into marriage and expecting a custom cake in three months_ ; he has to bite his lip hard to prevent the words from escaping.

"I'll do my best," he says calmly. "Thanks for the call, Mr. Worthington."

He hangs up before Elliot has the chance to say anything more, and has to take a few deep, calming breaths to cool down. The fucking nerve of Elliot to speak to him like he's some - lowly serf, or whatever, as if he's on Jonny's payroll or something.

He looks at his phone, wondering if Jonny knows about this call and about the changes that Elliot wants, because Jonny clearly didn't know about it the last time Elliot called him to complain about the cake. His hand's twitching towards it before he stops; it's not his place to tell Jonny about what his fiancé does, and anyway, what would be the point of telling Jonny about it? He's not a shitty enough person to do such a thing and try to - drive a wedge between them, or whatever, gross.

But it does make him remember that Jonny sent him a text in the morning just before he boarded his plane in San Francisco, and he hasn't responded to it yet; so he grabs his phone and clicks through to Jonny's message.

_Have a safe flight home - hope you manage to catch some rest today. By the way, just wanted to let you know that I'll be heading to Montréal the day after tomorrow and won't be back until Friday. Got to sort out some things at the T-G HQ._

Huh. Jonny actually bothered to inform him that he'd be going to Montréal, even before Elliot told him. Why the hell would Jonny tell him something like this? As if Patrick cares about his whereabouts.

He replies anyway, so it doesn't get any weirder, letting Jonny's text hang in the air. _Hey, yeah, I'm back in Chicago. Sorry about the late reply, it's been crazy today. Have a good trip to Montréal._

His phone pings with Jonny's reply a few minutes later. _I was kind of thinking I might come by your bakery on my way to the airport, actually. If that's okay with you. Will you be there?_

Patrick frowns at the message. _What for?_ he types back, aware that he's maybe coming off a little rude to someone who's technically his client and who he's resolved to be friendly with, but this is just - weird.

He watches as the little text bubble with the ellipsis showing that Jonny's typing a reply appears - and then it vanishes. A few seconds later, Jonny resumes typing; but then he stops again. It takes a full minute before the ellipsis bubble pops up once more, and this time Jonny does send his text through.

_Just want to purchase some pastries for my flight. And bring some back for my parents._

Oh, _fuck_. Jonny's parents - he'd met them only once, and while they'd been civil to him, the time he'd spent with them had been enough to tell him exactly what they thought of him. He has no doubt that they're not going to be pleased if Jonny turns up in Montréal with a box of pastries made by the ex-boyfriend whom they'd disliked - and they hadn't liked him, Patrick's certain of that. The fact that Jonny thinks this is in any way a good idea is, quite frankly, stupefying.

 _Do you think that's a good idea?_ he replies to Jonny.

_Why not? They'll love them. I've never had anything better, not even in Paris, and they'll agree._

Patrick actually winces at that. Fucking Paris. And fuck Jonny for being so damned obtuse about Paris, about his parents, about that whole sorry time when they were there.

It does occur to him that he's maybe being somewhat unfair to Jonny, considering he never did tell Jonny why he wanted to leave, and certainly not about what happened in Paris; but he can't help that little internal flinch every time that city's brought up in relation to Jonny.

"Ugh, fuck this," he says out loud. Ryan, over in his corner, raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing; he's used to Patrick's random fits of swearing when he's working on a particularly difficult recipe.

He decides not to argue with Jonny over this - let him fight it out with his own parents, if it comes to that, it's not like Patrick will ever know anyway. So he simply types back: _Ok, sure. And while you're here, you can take a look at the cake, if you want. I'm doing a new test bake, and you can tell me if it passes._

 _Sounds good,_ Jonny replies right away. _Can't wait, see you on Tuesday._

Of course he can't wait to see his wedding cake, Patrick thinks, unable to stop the resentment bubbling up in his chest. Jonny couldn't even wait to get married - of course he's eager for his cake.

He suddenly feels really tired; he drops the phone on his table with a thump, loud enough that Ryan looks up again. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, all good," Patrick says, standing up. "I'm going to the kitchen, gonna do some work on the Worthington cake - they asked for some changes. And also, if anyone calls for me today, tell them I'm not in, okay? I'm not - I'm too fucking tired to take any more calls today."

Ryan looks concerned right away. "If you're not feeling good, why don't you just head home? Dylan and Hilary have everything under control today - you can work on the cake tomorrow."

"Nah, Toews is coming to the bakery on Tuesday and he wants to look at it. I've got to start today if I'm going to get the decorations done in time."

"Oh," Ryan says. "Okay then. Let the guys know if you need any help, yeah?"

"You know it," Patrick says, and heads to the kitchen, where he intends to lose himself in his baking and sugar work, until he can forget about the feelings of melancholy that the thought of Paris always dredges up in him.

\---

Patrick usually stays in the kitchen or the office and lets his staff handle the front-facing part of the business, but on Wednesday morning he finds himself wedged behind the counter next to Hilary, Connor, and Dylan, all of whom are giving him weird looks.

"You gonna just stand there, or are you helping us out?" Hilary finally asks, her mouth twisted up in a small smirk.

"I'm totally helping," Patrick says, and grabs an empty box from under the counter to hand it to her. "I'm - giving out boxes. To you guys."

"Great help, boss," Hilary says, but she's grinning, and so are the others. Patrick ignores them and turns, for the hundredth time, to look out of the bakery's glass shopfront; his heart leaps a little in his chest when he sees a black Tesla idling by the curb.

The door pushes open and Jonny comes in; he stands for a couple of seconds at the door, just looking around the bakery and taking it in, and it gives Patrick time to notice the long dark brown overcoat he's wearing, cut perfectly to emphasise the thick slope of his shoulders.

They're - pretty good shoulders.

Jonny's eyes finally slide over to where he's standing, and he breaks out into a huge smile; and at that moment, right then, Patrick finds himself abruptly flashing back on all the times he'd imagined exactly this: looking up one day to see Jonny standing at the door of his bakery, looking at him and smiling.

Patrick suddenly wishes, with a ferocity that surprises him, that everything had gone differently for them.

Jonny makes his way over to the counter, eyes fixed on Patrick, not seeming to realize that he's cut in front of several excited Japanese tourists who fall silent and stare at Jonny like he's going to buy up every last item in the bakery before they can get to them.

"Hey," Jonny says, still smiling at him and ignoring everyone else. "Your bakery is _fantastic_. I should have come by sooner. You did great."

Patrick can't help but quirk a smile at him, before he jerks his chin to indicate for Jonny to move back. It's only then that Jonny tears his eyes away from him; he looks around to see the Japanese tourists glaring at him, and immediately steps out of the line, apologizing as he does so. "Oh, I'm sorry - "

"Connor, can you see to these customers, please?" Patrick says. "I have to - my, uh, friend is here."

Connor directs the gaggle of tourists past Jonny, as Patrick motions Jonny over to the very end of the counter, away from the line.

"So," Jonny says, looking around again, "it's a really great space, Patrick. Love what you did with the interior."

"That's my interior designer, not me," Patrick says, reaching under the counter to take out a flattened blue box. "So what are you looking to get today? Which did you like from the ones you've tried? For the macarons today I've got cookies and cream, and salted caramel - "

"Oh, no, you can't fool me," Jonny says, as if Patrick hasn't even spoken. "I can see your ideas in all the interior fittings. The duck egg blue? The white granite? That's all you."

"Yeah, well, I told them what I like obviously, for colours and stuff, but they're still the ones who designed it and put it together."

Jonny looks at him straight in the eye then, and Patrick's taken aback by the sudden depth of intensity in them.

"I remember when you got our bedroom painted this same blue," Jonny says quietly. "You loved this colour."

And - oh shit. Oh _shit_. Patrick hadn't - he hadn't even _thought_ about it when he'd picked the colour; it's just like Jonny says, it's always been his favourite - but now Jonny's fucking mentioned their old apartment, and Patrick looks down at the box in his hands, in the exact same shade of blue their fucking _bedroom_ had been, with the words _Sugar Kane Bakery, Chicago_ printed on the side, and feels suddenly faint.

"I don't remember," he says through gritted teeth.

Jonny seems to realize what he's said, because he turns pale under his tan, and Patrick can see him visibly swallow.

"I'm - sorry," he says at last. "Let's just - I won't bring it up again. What did you say you had for macarons today?"

Someone coughs; Patrick glances over to see that it's Dylan, staring at him. He arches an eyebrow at Patrick, and then pointedly glances over at Jonny, as if to say: _any trouble there?_

Patrick blinks at him; then he realizes he's held the empty box so tight that he's crushed it at the corners. "Shit," he says, tossing it into a bin behind him and pulling out another flattened one. _All good,_ he mouths at Dylan, who narrows his eyes at him, but turns away to speak to the next customer in line.

"Uh, yeah, so cookies and cream, and salted caramel," he says, willing his heart rate to slow down. He's relieved he sounds normal, at least.

Jonny nods; his face has returned to its usual colour. "I guess I'll take three of each - and maybe three more of those kouign-amanns you gave me the last time? They were so good."

"Yeah?" Patrick says, carefully placing the macarons into a macaron box. He tries not to feel over-pleased at the praise - he's Patrick Kane after all, one of America's top pastry chefs - but he can't help it; Jonny's obvious sincerity and admiration have always been good for him. "Anything else you want to get? Or do you want me to recommend something?"

"Yes, that'll be great," Jonny says immediately, brightening.

Patrick selects the pear and ginger petit gateau, the pavlova rose with berry compote and lime joconde cake, and the red plum guava tart, packing three of each into boxes like Jonny asks him to; he's very conscious that he's selecting these not just for Jonny, but for Jonny's parents as well, and he's stupidly aware of that twenty-two year-old boy deep inside of him who's somehow still looking for their approval, even if he's no longer Jonny's boyfriend, and nearing thirty-one now.

"There," he says at last, clipping the last box closed. "Is that okay?"

"More than okay," Jonny says, looking at him with so much warm approval it makes Patrick's cheeks burn. "They look amazing. We'll love this, I promise."

"Well, make sure they're kept refrigerated on the flight," Patrick says.

"Yeah, definitely, I'll have my crew put them away in the galley once I'm on board," Jonny says - and, well, of course Jonny's flying on his private jet, Patrick thinks.

He wonders, with a pang, if it's the same jet he took to Paris with Jonny all those years ago; then he wonders how long private jets can fly for before they'll have to be replaced. Whatever, Jonny can afford a whole fucking fleet of them. Patrick doesn't need - or want - to think about it, and especially not of the fight they'd had before he'd agreed to get on that plane and go to Paris.

"Okay," he says softly, biting his lip, willing the memories out of his head. He fiddles with the boxes a little longer than necessary; and when he looks up, Jonny's looking at him quizzically.

"You okay, Pat?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course," Patrick says quickly. "You can pay at the cashier, and then I'll take you to the back and you can see your wedding cake."

A tiny frown flits over Jonny's face, so quick that Patrick's not sure he's seen anything at all. "Oh. Yeah, of course, sure."

\---

"Oh, _wow_ ," Jonny says, looking stunned, as Patrick brings out the test cake that he'd baked just two days before from the refrigerator - already decorated with the gumpaste rosettes, each petal meticulously accented with petal dust by hand, a sprinkle of gold dust over the top of the ivory fondant. "That's - wow. Is that how every tier is going to look?"

"With a few differences here and there in the colour accents, the number and type of flowers, things like that - but yeah, this is basically how each tier will be decorated. Once the cake is stacked and assembled, it's going to look beautiful."

"I have no doubt of that," Jonny says, eyes flicking between the cake and Patrick. He looks awed by it already; Patrick wonders how he's going to react once the full cake's done and assembled at his wedding. "You are - you're amazing. That's gorgeous."

"Glad you think so," Patrick says. "I like to satisfy my clients." He winks at Jonny, and it takes him a second too long to realize how he sounds.

Jonny flushes, and Patrick can't help staring; he remembers how that flush on Jonny's cheeks used to go all the way down his neck, to his chest. Then he forces himself to look away, because - really, what the hell is he thinking, trying to flirt with his engaged ex-boyfriend? He could punch himself for that.

"Anyway," Patrick says, clearing his throat, "let me cut a slice, show you how it looks on the inside - you can taste it if you want, but I'd rather you wait for the taste test itself, since this is just out of the fridge and it's going to be icy cold."

"Oh - yeah, no, I don't mind, I can taste it," Jonny says. He's rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck, but at least the flush is receding from his cheeks. "Did you - make this yourself? All the painting and decorating?"

"Yeah," Patrick says, fetching one of his knives and running it under a hot water tap before he wipes it dry with a clean cloth. "My guys are - they're great, but it's a very busy time for the bakery, and they have other projects to work on, so I've been - yeah. Working on this, on my own."

"That's a lot of work," Jonny says. He watches Patrick's hands closely as Patrick slices into the cake, cutting a perfect wedge, and Patrick sees him lick his lips, as if they're dry.

"I'm used to it," he says, shrugging, and lifts out the wedge, rosettes and all. "Look - what do you think?"

The cake's made of three layers of sponge, the eggnog frosting thick and creamy white, standing out against the pale pink sponge in clear, distinct lines. Patrick hasn't actually frosted a cake himself in a long while - most of that's left to his team - but he's pleased to see that he's hasn't lost his touch, every line of the cake sharp and straight. Even Elliot can't find fault with this, he thinks.

"Looks good to you?" he asks.

Jonny's staring at him holding up the slice of cake, and there's something in his face that's - a little strange, but Patrick can't place the emotion. It takes Jonny a full three seconds to respond, and when he does, he's quieter than usual.

"It looks beautiful," he says.

\---

**December 2009**

Patrick fucking hates December.

He didn't before he got to Chicago; December always meant a break from school, Christmas, time with his family, and the years that his parents couldn't afford to get him gifts didn't matter, because he still got to spend the time with the people he loves. But now December to him means three weeks alone in the apartment he shares with Jonny, while Jonny returns to his family home in Winnipeg to be with his parents and brother for the holiday.

The last time he'd called home to tell his parents he wouldn't be back for Christmas - for the second year in a row - his father had said, "Aren't you dating that rich Canadian boy still? Just ask him to pay for your flight home, don't tell me he can't afford that."

"I can't - I'm not going to ask him for _money_ , dad, what the hell," Patrick said through gritted teeth.

His father snorted. "You're already living with him rent-free, I'm guessing he pays all the bills for your nice little condo and for your food and other expenses; what's the difference in getting him to cough up another few hundred so you can see your family?"

Patrick didn't know what to say. How could he tell his father that it's _precisely_ because Jonny's already paying for everything else, that he can't ask him to pay for anything more? That he refuses to ask Jonny for that because he _knows_ Jonny will buy him his air ticket and probably give him an allowance to buy presents and shit, and it's bad enough knowing that he's practically living off Jonny when they're in Chicago, but the humiliation of having to buy his family Christmas presents with his boyfriend's money is a little too much to bear?

"It's his money, not mine," Patrick said instead, and that set off yet another argument with his father over how Patrick was too stupid to parlay this relationship into something useful for himself and his parents; until Patrick finally shouted down the phone, "Dad, I'm not a fucking chess piece for you to leverage and whore out to a rich dude just because you think you can use him to make your own life more comfortable", and his father had hung up on him.

That was the last time he'd spoken to either of his parents. He still hasn't told Jonny about it.

So he's stuck watching Jonny pack the last few items for his trip home into his bag, sitting on the couch and feeling sorry for himself.

Jonny looks up as he zips his case closed. "I'm sorry," he says quietly; he must see Patrick's disappointment written all over his face. "I wish I could stay with you."

"Nah, Christmas is a time for family," Patrick says, looking away. He suddenly wishes, with all his heart, that he could just - go home. See his little sisters, and his mother - forget his dad - and bring Jonny with him, except that someone like Jonny would never be at home in his cramped, rundown childhood home in Buffalo, or be comfortable with a woman like his mother, who works two jobs and sometimes still has to do double shifts at the diner just to make ends meet.

Probably just as uncomfortable as he would be meeting Jonny's mother, he thinks; Jonny has a few pictures of his parents in their condo, and there's one of Andree Gilbert resplendent in a blue gown, glittering with diamonds, with Michelle Obama. How could Patrick's mother ever compare?

"You sure your parents told you not to go home?" Jonny asks, frowning slightly.

"Yeah," Patrick says, "stop asking, I told you, Erica and Jess are going to spend Christmas with their boyfriends, my baby sister will be with our grandparents, and my parents are going to be in Albany with some of my mother's relatives - it's fine."

He looks straight at Jonny as he speaks, willing Jonny to believe him. It's true that they'll be in Albany - but the whole family will, not just his parents. And Patrick will miss out on yet another Christmas with them.

"I'm so sorry you'll have to be alone," Jonny says, coming over to cup his face in his hands. He bends down to give Patrick a sweet, soft kiss. "I wish you could come with me."

"Yeah, it's okay," Patrick says. Jonny's never explicitly said so - but he thinks he knows what Jonny's parents think of him shacking up with a penniless American boy who's living on Jonny's insanely generous trust fund, and that's why they've never invited Patrick to visit them with Jonny, never made an effort to know him or speak to him.

"I'll call you on Christmas. And every day before and after that, I promise."

"You don't need to," Patrick says, shrugging. "You'll be too busy with all the Christmas parties lined up for you."

"You know I'd much rather be here with you than at any Christmas party, right?" Jonny asks quietly. He strokes over the edge of Patrick's cheekbone with his thumb, and Patrick leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, trying not to give in to the urge to beg Jonny to just - stay.

"I know," he says. "Get going or you'll miss your flight."

"It's a private jet, it can't take off without me," Jonny says, looking a little bewildered - and jesus, Jonny's parents sent their private plane for him, Patrick's boyfriend comes from a family that owns an actual fucking private jet. It makes Patrick's head _hurt_.

He pastes a smile on his face instead and shoves gently at Jonny's shoulders. "Get going already," he says. _Before I crack and beg you not to._

Jonny steals another kiss from him, this one long and lingering, and it takes everything Patrick has to let him go after that. "I love you," Jonny says, stepping out of the door. "I'll call you, I promise. It's just three weeks."

"Love you too," Patrick says as Jonny shuts the door behind him, and he's left to his own loneliness.

\---

It's fitting that Christmas Day itself is terrible; it's stormy as hell in Chicago, sleet coming down thickly, and even with Patrick's natural instinct for saving money, he has to turn the thermostat up in the apartment a few degrees. He's on the couch wrapped in a thick fleece blanket, watching some inane Christmas program on the TV but not really concentrating on it, waiting for Jonny to call because he'd said he would. Maybe he'll surprise Jonny with some phone sex; that's got to be the next best thing to having Jonny actually fucking him right here.

And he waits. And waits. And _waits_.

The clock ticks by, unbearably slow, hour by hour. Patrick watches the weak, pale light of the sun and the shadows it casts in the apartment move across the floor and darken into night while the bright, jarring programs play on TV one after another, feeling numb and blank. Jonny had promised he would call him to wish him merry Christmas. He wouldn't forget about Patrick, no matter how much fun he's having.

By the time it's close to midnight, Patrick's numbness has shifted into concern: there's been no word from Jonny, not even a text, and he has no idea if Jonny's even okay. His brain's been conjuring up scenarios for the past two hours where Jonny's hurt or injured somehow and _no one's_ bothered to - or even knows to - contact him. He hasn't wanted to call or text Jonny, preferring not to disturb him while he's doing family stuff - and Jonny's always called him every night since he'd gone home anyway - but there's ten minutes left till Christmas is over, Patrick's thinking of horrible things like Jonny bleeding out in a dark alleyway, and he fumbles for his phone and calls him.

The phone rings and rings, and then disconnects.

Patrick's definitely feeling a little panicky now, and he calls again. This time, Jonny picks up with an "'ello?", his French accent more pronounced now after his time back home, and the first thing Patrick feels is crushing relief.

"Jonny? Oh my god, are you okay?"

"Pat?" Jonny says, voice thick and slurred, and it's then that Patrick realizes that Jonny's drunk. Really, really drunk, from the sound of it, and wherever he is, it's noisy as hell, with loud thumping music and the sound of people's voices and laughter in the background.

Patrick feels like he could vomit. There's a painful throbbing that's starting deep in his head, buzzing in his ears.

"Baby," Jonny says, glee in his voice. "Heyyyy, I miss you."

 _Do you?_ Patrick wants to ask. _Do you really? You're having the time of your fucking life while I'm alone in Chicago on Christmas Day waiting for one fucking call from you._

He takes a deep breath; he's starting to tremble despite the heat in the apartment and the warmth of his fleece. "I'm sorry to call and bother you, Jonny. You're having fun?"

"So - fucking - much fun," Jonny says, and then he starts laughing. "Oh god, you should be here."

"But I'm not," Patrick says, clipped and short. "Happy Christmas, Jonny. Glad you're enjoying yourself so fucking much."

"Jonathan?" someone says, on Jonny's end of the call. It's a female voice, and whoever she is, she's close enough to Jonny that Patrick can hear her clearly even through all the noise. She's saying something to Jonny in French, close and quick and happy-sounding, and Jonny responds to her in French as well, laughing and sounding ridiculously delighted.

Patrick's not a jealous person, never has been, but right now the jealousy rising in his chest, thick and heavy, is enough to choke an elephant. He's gripping his phone so tight that his hand hurts.

"Gotta go," Jonny says suddenly to him, in English, and what - _what?_ He's got to go just because some girl said something to him? "Bye! Merry Christmas!"

The phone goes dead, the riotous noise abruptly cut off. Jonny hadn't even said 'I love you'.

Patrick lowers the phone tremblingly and stares at it for a full minute. When the anger hits him - really _hits_ \- he's swung his arm back and flung his phone against the wall with all his strength, almost without realizing what he's doing. It slams against the wall and thuds to the marble floor; from where he is, Patrick can see the crack in the screen. The phone had been a gift from Jonny - ironically, his Christmas gift from last year.

Patrick doesn't realize he's crying until he flings the blanket off and stands up; everything's a blur as he stumbles his way into the kitchen. He rubs furiously at his eyes with the heel of his hands. He's not going to cry, not over this, not when he's supposed to be understanding and good about Jonny spending Christmas with his family and friends back home. It's not Jonny's fault _he_ can't go home.

But the way the girl had said Jonny's name in French - her voice so low and close to Jonny - it makes bile rise in Patrick's throat. And Jonny's parents - if it wasn't for them, Jonny could be here with him now, or he could be in Winnipeg.

And Jonny didn't fight for him to be there.

He feels like he's been hollowed out inside with a spoon - like someone's dug everything out of him and replaced it with this horrible baleful anger and jealousy - and the only thing he can think of doing right now is getting rid of that, numbing it. He yanks the fridge door open and pulls out every bottle of alcohol they have - beer, vodka, Bailey's, even that stupid port wine Jonny sometimes likes to drink at night, like some stuffy old man - and methodically starts drinking.

Happy fucking Christmas, he thinks to himself bitterly; and then he keeps drinking until he can't think anymore.

\---

The incessant ringing of his phone breaks through the fog. Fuck, everything _hurts_ \- his head, his neck, his back, and the inside of his mouth feels furred and sticky. What the hell is happening to him?

Patrick blinks his eyes open, and his head throbs harder at the bright sunlight streaming over every surface. He's lying on something hard; he rolls over with difficulty, every nerve in his body stiff and aching, and realises that he's sleeping on the living room floor.

Well, that explains the aches and pains.

He heaves himself into a sitting position; his mouth tastes like vomit. But the memories of last night are coming back to him now - opening bottles and drinking through the night; staggering to the bathroom to puke; he's actually amazed he made it in there and didn't throw up all over the floor. Thank fuck he didn't, because that would have been a bitch to clean up when hungover.

His phone rings again, insistently, and it all comes rushing back now: Jonny. The girl's voice, laughing with him. Jonny forgetting to call him, and hanging up on him. _Fuck._

Patrick looks around for his phone; surprisingly, it's not too far from him, still lying where he'd flung it against the wall in a rage yesterday. There's a long crack from the top to the bottom of the screen, and small spiderweb cracks radiating from it; but he can still see who's calling. It's Jonny.

The phone stops ringing then, and when Patrick looks at his missed calls, there are seven, all from Jonny. It's nearly two in the afternoon.

He's staring at the missed calls when Jonny calls again, and for a moment Patrick considers not picking up. Let Jonny feel the worry he felt when he was waiting all day yesterday for his call; except that this is Jonny's eighth call already, and Patrick knows he's going to keep calling until Patrick picks up.

Patrick swallows, and answers. "Yeah." His throat hurts and his voice is gritty and hoarse.

"Pat, oh god," Jonny says. He sounds frantic, and worried, and Patrick feels a little stab of triumph. He _should_ be fucking worried. "Are you all right? I've been calling and calling - "

"Yeah, I'm fine," Patrick says curtly.

"What's happened to your voice - why do you sound like that? Patrick, what's wrong?"

"Where were you last night?" Patrick says, unable to help himself.

There's a pause. "Last night?"

Patrick laughs, a short, bitter sound. "Don't tell me you were having so much fun that you've even forgotten I called."

"No - fuck, no, I remember that, and I'm sorry, okay? I felt so bad when I woke up, I've been trying to call you since then. Babe, I'm really sorry. I know you were waiting for me, and I shouldn't have made you wait. It's just - there was so much going on yesterday with my family, my parents invited like, half of fucking Montréal and Paris to the party at my home, and then my friends dragged me out clubbing after - I swear I didn't mean to not call you. I kept wanting to, but I kept getting interrupted, and - "

"Clubbing, huh?" Patrick says. "That where you met the girl?"

Jonny pauses again, longer this time. "What girl?" he says at last.

"That French girl. Talking to you in French. You and her were laughing and then you hung up on me after that."

"Oh, fuck," Jonny says. He sounds upset, and helpless, and despite himself, Patrick can't help but feel his anger ebb away to a simmer rather than the hot rage he'd felt last night. " _Fuck._ Pat, I'm sorry - that was just Eléonore - she's just a friend, I swear. I didn't mean to hang up on you - I wasn't _thinking_. Shit."

"Who is she?" Patrick asks. He's morbidly curious about this girl; he's always trusted Jonny, but he's tired and upset and hungover, and he just needs to _know_ and to have Jonny reassure him.

"She's just - Eléonore Fournier, my parents invited her and her family for Christmas - her father's in the shipping business and they're from Paris, he's a business partner of my mother's from way back. I've known Eléonore for years, but I swear to you, she's not the only one - I went out with a whole group of people and we've all known each other for ages, it wasn't just her - my parents fucking invited practically everyone we knew to our estate, it was insane."

 _They didn't invite me,_ Patrick thinks.

"Please believe me," Jonny pleads. "She's nothing, just a friend, I swear. I love you. I'm so, so sorry I didn't call, and you had to hear that."

"I do believe you," Patrick says, swallowing. "Just - don't do that again. I was worried about you."

"Fuck," Jonny says. "I won't. I'm sorry. I miss you so much, I really do."

"Miss you too," Patrick says softly. "And - merry Christmas, I guess. Even though it's over."

"Merry Christmas, babe," Jonny says. "Wish I could kiss you right now, to be honest."

"Come home soon and you can."

"You know what? I think I will. I'll come back to Chicago a few days early."

'Oh - no, you don't need to - " Patrick starts to say, but Jonny cuts him off.

"No, I want to. Christmas is done anyway, and after this it's just another series of boring dinner parties with my parents' business associates. And I'd rather be with you than with any of them."

Patrick knows Jonny probably doesn't really mean it - he's just trying to make up for upsetting Patrick on Christmas - but he's still touched, nevertheless, and just Jonny offering to do this is enough to ease the heavy hurt in his chest a little. "It's okay, you don't have to, but do whatever you want."

"I'll be back before you know it," Jonny promises.

He keeps his promise - he comes back four days later, a full week before he's due to return, and by that time Patrick's so delighted and relieved to see him and actually have Jonny with him to see in the new year, that the whole thing gets pretty much forgotten.

\---

**March 2018**

Patrick debuts both the passion fruit petit gateau and the honey, lavender and milk Cronut in the first week of March; it gets so crazy that he hasn't worked on Jonny's cake in more than a week - hasn't even really thought about Jonny, actually. So it's a bit of a surprise when he rolls over in bed one morning to check his phone blearily, and there's a text from Jonny last night saying _Hey, I'm back in Chicago._

 _Good for you_ , Patrick types back, and staggers into the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth.

There's another text from Jonny waiting when he's showered and dressed, and this one _really_ surprises him, because it's just a little past 5 a.m.; the Jonny he remembers never woke up before noon, if he was allowed. _I was thinking of coming by the bakery today._

 _I'm surprised you're up,_ Patrick texts him. _Since when do you get up this early?_

 _Couldn't sleep,_ Jonny says; even through the impersonal text, Patrick can feel the terseness. But Jonny sends another one through almost immediately: _Is it okay if I pop by? I could do with some coffee. And maybe another delicious pastry for breakfast._

 _Yeah, sure,_ Patrick texts back, wondering what's got into Jonny. _I'm heading there now to prep and open the bakery, but I'm going to Green City Market around 8 to check out some stuff. If you're still awake by then you could come along?_

 _Sounds good_ , Jonny replies. _I'll be there._

\---

Jonny appears at the bakery half an hour before 8 a.m., and right away Patrick can see that he looks terrible. There are dark circles under his eyes, like he really hasn't slept, and he's looking pale and bone-tired. It's the busiest time of the morning for the bakery, when the morning crowd heading to work converges on it, so the place is packed and Jonny can barely squeeze through the line snaking out the door. Patrick waves at him, and beckons him over so he can lead him past the crowd, into the back, and to his office. Ryan isn't in yet, so Patrick gets Jonny to sit at his desk.

"Your office?" Jonny asks, looking around at the papers scattered about on the desks, sketches tacked up on the walls.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "You look like shit."

"Told you, I didn't get much sleep," Jonny says, scrubbing his hand over his face.

"Okay, we'll get you some coffee and something to eat first before we head out," Patrick says. "We only have the instant stuff in my office, just letting you know, since we don't serve coffee in the bakery. I bet you drink like, cold brew made from some fancy Guatemalan hand-ground coffee beans or something."

Jonny laughs at him, and Patrick's glad to see his eyes brighten. "What do you even take me for? Instant is fine."

Patrick throws him a smile and goes out to fetch a hazelnut eclair and a citrus tart along with a cup of hot coffee; Jonny takes them from him gratefully. Patrick waves him away as he reaches into his coat to pay. "Don't worry about it," he says.

"Oh," Jonny says, blinking at him. "I - thanks."

He devours the eclair in two bites and the tart in three, closing his eyes between each bite; Patrick has no idea if he's savouring them or if he's tired enough to fall asleep, so he asks, "Are they okay?"

Jonny's eyes snap open. "Okay? They're more than okay. They're delicious. I haven't eaten anything you've made here that wasn't good." He's smiling now, and Patrick's gratified to see that he looks a little better and more alert already, as if all he needed was some food in him.

"This reminds me," Jonny says casually, "my parents absolutely loved the pastries, Patrick."

Patrick starts; he hadn't expected that at all, certainly not for Jonny to spring a mention of his parents on him so abruptly. "They did?" he asks, wondering if they _really_ did, or if they, well, didn't, and Jonny's just making nice.

"Yeah, they did. I told you they would," Jonny says, and he looks so satisfied and pleased that Patrick just _knows_ he can't be making it up. "And - they asked me to congratulate you. They're very happy for you and your success."

Patrick swallows. "Really? Didn't expect that."

"What do you mean?" Jonny asks, sitting up a little. There's a tiny crease appearing between his brows.

"Nothing bad," Patrick says, shaking his head and looking away from Jonny. "I just - thought they never really liked me much. Or would care about what I was doing."

There's a long silence. "That's - I don't know how you got that idea, but they never - they don't not like you," Jonny says at last, and he's outright frowning now, looking both confused and a little hurt.

"Whatever," Patrick says, shrugging. "It's - whatever, it doesn't matter anymore now."

"No - Patrick, what did you mean?" Jonny says insistently; before Patrick knows it, he's reached out and grasped his hand.

Patrick can't - he wants to, but he can't pull away. Jonny's staring at him, and even in the past he never could turn away from Jonny whenever he looked at him like this, all intense dark eyes, his hand big and warm in his own. He still can't. Jonny's iron will, that same ferocious determination that's carried him through all the years Patrick knew him, to how he is now as CEO of the Toews-Gilbert Group, hasn't changed at all; it's written all over his face, and it was overwhelming to Patrick back then, and it still is.

"Jonny - it's really nothing," he says pleadingly. "Can we just - drop it?"

For a moment Patrick thinks Jonny's going to push harder; but instead Jonny lets go of his hand and leans back. His face shifts subtly, and the mild oppressiveness of the air around them seems to lift; Patrick exhales slowly in a long slow sigh. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.

"I'm sorry," Jonny says, voice low. "I didn't mean to - you know." He gestures at Patrick's hand, limp in his lap.

Oh. Jonny hadn't meant to hold his hand, or touch him. And of course he hadn't - he's an engaged man, for fuck's sake. Patrick needs to remember that.

"It's okay," he says. "I guess - do you still want to come with me? To the farmers’ market?"

"Yeah, definitely," Jonny says, getting up; he looks about as relieved as Patrick feels, and Patrick's glad that they're both on the same page about moving on. "Thanks for the pastries, Pat."

"No biggie," Patrick says. He grabs his coat and shrugs it on. "Let me call a Lyft, and then we can go."

"Oh, it's fine, I have my car," Jonny says, letting Patrick lead the way out of his office and through the bakery.

Patrick expects to see Jonny's Tesla and driver waiting for them again, but instead Jonny walks briskly towards the parking garage a block away from the bakery, and Patrick follows.

Jonny leads him right to a fucking _2018 Lexus LC_ \- it's matte black, which, frankly, is hot as fuck - with an actual glass roof, and it unlocks silently when he and Jonny approach it. Patrick runs his hand over the door; he knows his mouth has fallen open, but he can't stop himself. He's only ever seen this car in magazines - it's so new he doesn't even think he's seen it anywhere on the roads in Chicago.

"Shit, dude, this is your car?" he blurts out. He's suddenly very aware of how similar this situation is to their first date, when eighteen-year-old Jonny had turned up in a Mercedes.

Jonny pauses from where he's swung his door open. "Yes?" he says.

"How many cars do you have?"

Jonny at least has the grace to look a little sheepish. "I - just a few, okay? Listen, I have my vices, don't judge."

Patrick starts laughing. "Jonny, most people's vices are things like pasta, or cake, or video games - not sweet-ass sports coupés and high-end Teslas."

"Shut up," Jonny grumbles. "Get in - it's freezing out here."

"Yeah, your fancy fucking car probably has like, adjustable heating and butt, back and leg warmers and, I don't even know, a steering wheel warmer to keep your cold hands warm, I don't see what you're worried about."

Jonny doesn't say anything, but his cheeks are growing pink again, and Patrick's pretty sure it's not from the cold.

"Oh my god," he says gleefully. "Shit, your car really has a heated steering wheel? _Jonny_ \- "

"Just get in, for fuck's sake," Jonny says, and climbs in, red in the face.

Patrick's still giggling when he gets in himself and slams the door shut behind him. "Okay, turn on the heating now," he says. "Get my butt warmed up good, Jonny."

"Stop saying - things like that," Jonny says.

It takes Patrick a moment to get what he means; but he's already laughing, so it just makes him laugh harder, clutching his stomach. Jonny pulls out of the lot so fast Patrick's a little worried he'll end up clipping the car next to him; but he doesn't, and when Patrick looks over at him, he's got a little smile on his face, looking like he's biting the insides of his cheeks so he won't laugh too.

It's the best Patrick has felt around Jonny since he reappeared in his life.

\---

Once at the Green City Market, Jonny falls into step next to him as easily as if they've been doing it every day, without the years-long gap between them. It's crowded, as it always is on Sunday morning, and halfway through navigating the throng Patrick feels Jonny's hand come to rest on his lower back, gently guiding him along.

It makes Patrick feel weird inside, and a little guilty, like he's doing something _wrong_ ; but it also makes all his nerves heat up from inside out, Jonny's hand warm even through the layers of his coat and pullover.

He's not really sure if they should even be doing this - if Jonny should be touching him like this. He tries to imagine how he'd feel if he was Elliot and knew that his fiancé was walking with another man this way, fingertips pressing into the small of his back; and he knows that it would make him feel like shit.

He stops at one of the vendors - a wild honey producer - and subtly turns away so Jonny's hand falls away from him.

Jonny doesn't seem to notice it, however; he just leans close to study the jars of honey on display. "Eucalyptus honey," he reads aloud from the first one. "Interesting."

"Would you like to know more about the different varieties of honey we make?" the vendor asks; Patrick considers it and then nods. If he can find something special, he can buy a few jars to take back to the bakery, test them in some new recipes.

He ends up buying a jar each of blackberry, orange blossom, and sage honey; Jonny takes the bag while he's paying, and shakes his head when Patrick reaches out for it. "It's fine," he says, and starts walking alongside him, arm bumping gently against Patrick's.

Patrick stops at the dairy which supplies the bakery with butter and milk; they know him well and greet him cheerfully when he approaches. "Remember when you got some of that sea salt butter we made last month?" the vendor says. "We churned another batch yesterday - do you want more of it?"

"Definitely," Patrick says. "How much do you have left today? I'll take it all."

"All?" Jonny asks him, eyes wide.

"Oh, yeah," Patrick says. "This is the dairy that supplies my bakery - most of the butter and milk I use come from them. Everything from their own grass-fed, free range cows, and their butter is just amazing - so creamy and rich and silky. And they churn every small batch by hand, so whenever they've got something new, I have to take everything."

"Stop, you're giving me a big head," the vendor says as he packs the bricks of butter into a bag. "Here you go - "

"Oh, I've got that," Jonny says, and takes the bag as well. There's a lot of butter, so it's probably pretty heavy, but Jonny holds it like it weighs nothing, patiently waiting for Patrick to pay.

"Aw, your boyfriend's nice," the vendor says, grinning, as he swipes Patrick's card.

Patrick freezes. "Um - excuse me?" he asks.

"Not your boyfriend?" the vendor asks, arching an eyebrow.

"No - no, he's most definitely not, we're just - friends," Patrick says. Beside him, Jonny glances over at him when he says 'friends', but doesn't say anything.

"Nice _friend_ you've got there, then," the vendor says as he hands back Patrick's card and receipt to him; to Patrick's horror, he actually winks at him. God, he thinks Jonny's like - courting Patrick, or something. Fuck.

"See you again, Tom," Patrick says, and wrests the butter from Jonny's grip. "No, it's fine - just let me take it, Jonny."

Jonny looks like he's about to protest, but thinks better of it, and lets Patrick take the bag from him.

"What was going on there?" Jonny asks, as they walk away.

"Nothing," Patrick says, a little too quickly. "Hey, you know what - I remember this market has a farmer who runs an urban farm - do you still do those hydroponic tower garden thingies? They might have stuff you'd want to look at."

Jonny brightens. "Yeah, I still have them, in most of my homes. You remember the tower gardens?"

"How could I not?" Patrick says, laughing; he's relieved to have distracted Jonny, at least. "You had a whole row of them taking up like, half the space in our kitchen."

It occurs to him as he speaks that this is the first time he's brought up the apartment they'd shared of his own accord, and it's surprising that he doesn't feel the pang of heartache he expects to feel - had felt earlier when Jonny mentioned the colour of their bedroom walls.

"Don't even front, you said the tomatoes were sweet," Jonny says, grinning.

"They were good tomatoes," Patrick agrees.

\---

It's a really, _really_ good day; Jonny buys a bunch of sprouts and seeds from the indoor garden place, Patrick gets a few other things here and there for his own apartment and for the bakery, and by the time they're done they're both weighed down with bags. Jonny gets everything put into the trunk of his car, and as Patrick gets in, he asks, "Where to now?"

"Back to the bakery? I have to refrigerate all that stuff I bought, especially the dairy. And then, I don't know, I'll work on some recipes, I guess."

"Why don't you have lunch with me?" Jonny says. "After you get your stuff put away, I mean. We can go out for lunch. You need to eat too, don't you?"

Patrick looks at him in surprise. "You still want to - I mean, you have time?" he asks. He'd assumed Jonny would have more pressing things to do than hang out with him all day.

"Yeah?" Jonny says. "It's Sunday, I'm not going to check my emails while I'm with - I mean, if there's anything important, people will call."

"You're pretty busy, aren't you?" Patrick asks, as Jonny puts the car into gear.

Jonny shrugs. "It is what it is - but I mean it, I'm not going to look at my emails today. So how about it? Lunch with me? Or it'll be back to an afternoon of working for us both - and that's kind of sad."

Patrick smiles. "Yeah, I guess it couldn't hurt. You sure you don't have anything important to do today though?"

"Nope," Jonny says.

"What about Elliot?" Patrick asks curiously. "Don't you want to spend time with him?"

Jonny doesn't say anything for a while, but eventually he replies, "We - well, I mean, he's got his own friends he hangs out with and I have my work. It keeps me busy."

And, well, that's the weirdest thing Patrick's ever heard. He has no idea how a couple engaged to be married can seem so - detached, from each other.

He thinks back on the other weirdness he's sensed before about Jonny's relationship with Elliot, like how they don't seem to talk, how Elliot didn't know Jonny had approved their cake design, and when Elliot went to Los Angeles for his suit fitting without Jonny; but it's really none of his business, and he's _not_ going to pry. Jonny's getting married in less than two months, and then all of this is going to be moot anyway.

Jonny drives them to Roister after dropping the perishables at the bakery; Patrick gets a Bloody Mary and Jonny an old fashioned, and Patrick grins at him over their drinks. "How'd you know Roister is one of my favourite brunch places?" he says.

Jonny blinks at him. "It's one of my favourites too," he says slowly. "I come here all the time - well, whenever I _have_ time."

Patrick doesn't know why it surprises him - Jonny and he had shared everything before, had lived together for three years, and they've always had similar tastes. What really surprises him is that neither of them have changed as much as he'd first thought, even though eight years have gone by.

"Well then, good choice," he says, and clinks his glass against Jonny's.

Jonny smiles back at him, and they end up staying until past three in the afternoon, drinking and chatting, and it's almost as if no time has passed - as if they've never broken up, never had all that hurt and anger dangling between them. Patrick's had more fun than he had in a long while, with anyone else.

Eventually he asks Jonny to drop him back at the bakery with some regret. "Sorry, but I definitely need to get on with those recipes, or I won't have time."

"It's fine," Jonny says, waving for the check, but when it comes, Patrick takes the billfold from the server.

"I'll get it," he says, fishing his card from his wallet; Jonny doesn't protest, but watches him with a small smile on his face that Patrick doesn't know how to interpret.

"Thanks for lunch," he says, as they leave the restaurant. "Next time, it's on me, eh?"

 _Next time._ Patrick remembers what it was like, on their first date and all their subsequent dates, when Jonny would take him to the finest restaurants in Chicago and pay each time. He never ever got to take Jonny out for dinner and pay for him, not once. It always ate away at him, even though he never told Jonny how it made him feel.

But things are different now. Patrick's a successful pastry chef now, and he's making money; if he wanted to, he could pay for Jonny every time they meet and have a meal. It's that knowledge of it, that he _knows_ he could, that makes him smile and tilt his head at Jonny.

"Any time," he says. "And hey - I had a lot of fun today. It's really good to just - hang out with you. And catch up like this."

"It was good for me too," Jonny says; his tone is serious, but his eyes are bright and warm. "We really should do this more."

"Yeah, we should," Patrick says, nodding. He means it, too. Jonny may never again be his the way he used to be - the way Patrick kind of still wishes he could be - but it's good enough for Patrick, that they can clear away the bitter dregs of the past and start afresh as friends.

\---

Unfortunately, Patrick's sense of wellbeing doesn't last long. Elliot calls him again a few days later to demand more changes to the cake.

"It's just - I don't know," he says, sounding peevish. "It's like, I have this vision of my cake in my head, and yours is _not_ it at all, you know?"

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to not hang up on him. "Okay, what exactly is your _vision_ then? It would honestly help a lot if you could be clear and specific about it, and please remember there's just a month left to your wedding."

"I don't need you reminding me of my wedding," Elliot snaps. "It's just - I wanted something tall, tiered and grand - I want it to be white, and with more flowers, maybe. More lacework, and drapery? Those drape things, whatever you call them."

Patrick scrolls to the sketch of the cake he has in his iPad, and the photographs he'd taken of the test cake and emailed to Jonny and Elliot. It's - white. And covered in rosettes, and fondant drapes, and lacework. He sighs inwardly.

"Mr. Worthington, I can absolutely add more decorations if you want, but I'm telling you, there are already going to be over six hundred flowers on your cake, and if you want me to add more lacework and drapes, it's going to end up looking very busy and messy."

"No, I definitely want that," Elliot says. "I mean, you're an award-winning pastry chef, aren't you? It's your job to make sure it looks good instead of messy, isn't it?"

Christ, the man is an _asshole_.

"Sure I can," Patrick says, no longer bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.

"And remember that I want every single flower accented with colour."

"Can't forget that," Patrick says with heavy sarcasm. God, it's going to be a hell of a job to add more decorations and colours and ensure that the cake still looks balanced.

"Good," Elliot says crisply. "So you can do another test bake and send us the photos soon, right?"

"I'll do my best," Patrick says, and thankfully Elliot hangs up without saying anything more. Prick. He can't fathom why Jonny's marrying someone like that.

He slumps back in his chair with a sigh; Ryan's long gone home for the day and the bakery's about to close for the night, but he thinks he might as well start on the changes Elliot asked for, do up a new sketch and see how he can get the cake to look before he proceeds with a test bake tomorrow.

He gets so engrossed in his sketch that he doesn't realize how much time has passed until Nick pokes his head into his office. "Patrick? We're done here and we're gonna head home. Are you staying?"

"Uh," Patrick says, glancing at the clock. Fuck, it's nearly midnight, but he's still not done. "Go on ahead, I'll stay for a while more to get this finished. Lock up the back, will you?"

"Sure," Nick says. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," Patrick says absently, bending back over his sketch.

Despite his irritation with Elliot, he sinks into the task quickly; it's a challenge, and Patrick's always liked a challenge. It's not easy, though - adding any more drapery definitely knocks the look of the entire cake off-balance, and more lace scrollwork makes it look too busy. He frowns, thinking hard. Elliot had previously wanted the lace to be pink, to match the sponge; perhaps if he made it thinner and more delicate, and changed it to a very pale pink, it would look less crowded? He makes a quick note to himself to try the colour change during the next test bake.

His phone rings suddenly, making him jump; he grabs it and blinks at Jonny's name on his screen. It's nearly 1 a.m. already; why in the world is Jonny calling him now?

He thumbs across his phone to answer the call. "Hey, what's up?"

"Hey," Jonny says. "Are you still in the bakery?"

"I - yeah. How'd you know?"

"I just left my hotel and we drove past the bakery and I saw the light was still on. What are you even doing there so late?"

Patrick hesitates; he doesn't know if Elliot's ever mentioned any of his demands to Jonny, and it's not like he wants to cause any friction between them or whatever, but Jonny _is_ the groom after all, and he has a right to know what's being done to his cake.

"Uh, actually, making some changes to your cake," he says. "Elliot called earlier and asked to change a little here and there. I'm just working on a sketch for it, that's all. Didn't realize it had gotten so late."

"Jesus, what," Jonny says. "He wanted changes _again_? Fuck that. The cake was beautiful as it was. I don't need any changes."

"Hey, no," Patrick says quickly. "It's fine, really - it's my job - "

"No," Jonny says. "Just - stop. Don't change anything."

"For fuck's sake, the two of you are giving me whiplash here," Patrick snaps; he doesn't mean to, but the frustration that's been building up inside him rushes out before he can keep a hold on it. "He's going to be your husband, he has a say in this cake too, you know. Make up your minds before telling me different things all the time."

There's a pause; Patrick stops, shocked at his own outburst. He hadn't meant to at all - god, he's being so _rude_ , and Jonny may be kind of a friend but he's also a client - and then just as he's about to apologize, Jonny speaks. "I'm sorry. Shit. I didn't mean to - look, I'll speak to him and tell him to leave you alone. I mean, you can do whatever you want. If you want to do what he asked for and make his changes, go ahead. But I'll talk to him and make sure he stops making things difficult for you. I'm sorry about this."

Patrick exhales slowly. "It's fine. Thanks. And I'm sorry too - I shouldn't have blown up at you like that. I'm kind of hungry, maybe. Hangry. Get it?"

"You haven't eaten?" Jonny asks, sounding shocked.

"I may have, uh, forgotten to get dinner?" Patrick says. "I was busy today - and then I got engrossed in your sketch - and, well, I'll just grab something later, on the way home. There's this Middle Eastern place nearby that closes at three."

"Hmm," Jonny says. "So you're not leaving the bakery any time soon?"

Patrick looks down at the sketch. "I just want to get this finished first, you know? I mean, it won't take much more time. Maybe another hour."

"Good," Jonny says. "Give me - forty minutes. I'll call you later, and you can open the door for me."

"Wait, what?" Patrick asks, alarmed. "What are you doing?"

"Forty minutes," Jonny says, and hangs up. What the hell.

\---

Jonny texts him in forty minutes, like he'd said. _Open your door please, I'm outside._

Patrick blinks at the text, and heaves himself out of his chair, wincing at the ache in his lower back. He stretches a little and then goes out to the front of the bakery, where Nick's left a single light on. Jonny's standing outside, and it's probably freezing, so Patrick unlocks the door quickly and pushes it open.

"What are you doing?" he asks in amazement as Jonny sweeps in, bringing with him a gust of cold wind. He's laden down with paper bags, and he sets them on the counter as Patrick shuts the door and locks it again, turning on more lights. "What are those?"

Jonny looks tired and wan, with shadows under his eyes - and no wonder, if he's like Patrick and works at his hotel until past midnight all the time - but he's grinning as he reaches into the first bag. "I went back to Palais de Lune and got our chef to make us dinner. I had a light dinner - but since I was working late I'm hungry again anyway, and I figured, why not get you some food, and we can share it."

Patrick blinks at him. Jonny actually - shit, he actually did that. For Patrick. He had his chef cook an actual meal, and he brought it to Patrick, at two a.m. on a cold Chicago night.

Jonny's still talking as he pulls a box out of the first bag. "Just so you know, this food is from our normal room service kitchen, not from any of the restaurants - you know we have a two-Michelin-starred restaurant in the hotel, right? - so the food might not be as good as it would be from one of them, but it'll still be good. You got a table or any place here we can eat at?"

"Um," Patrick says dazedly, "yeah, we can do it in my office."

He leads the way and pulls up Ryan's chair for Jonny, pushing his papers and stuff to one side of his desk, as Jonny starts taking boxes out of the bags, talking all the while. "I remember you used to like cacio e pepe - I had the chef make that, and I got us a tomato, basil and burrata salad; parma ham with figs and melon; bruschetta; meatballs - oh, our meatballs are really good, actually." He opens up the lids of the boxes as he speaks; the fragrance of the food rises into the air, and Patrick's stomach makes the most embarrassing, loudest rumble ever.

Jonny gives him a look and points to his chair. "Sit. Eat," he says, and pulls out - actual silver cutlery, wrapped in a linen napkin, and hands it to Patrick, before he reaches into the last bag and brings out two bottles of wine, and two glasses. Patrick's jaw drops; holy shit, Jonny is crazy.

"You're crazy," he says out loud, clutching the napkin, as Jonny carefully wipes down both glasses with yet another napkin, and pours Patrick a glass of white wine.

Jonny just grins at him. "Surprise, I guess?" he says, and he looks so - happy, and hopeful, and earnest, that Patrick just can't help but smile.

"I - thanks," he says. "This was - really, really thoughtful of you. It's a good surprise. Thank you."

Jonny drops into the chair Patrick's pulled up next to his. "Eat, go on. You must be starving - I know I am."

Patrick tends to forget his hunger when he works; but here, ensconced in his office with Jonny and no one else in the quiet of the night, his desk covered with delicious-smelling food, he practically inhales everything into his gullet. He doesn't stop until the boxes are cleared, and then he leans back, sighing contentedly and rubbing his stomach, as Jonny opens the second bottle of wine and tops up their glasses.

"Wow," he says. "I didn't even realize we'd finished one bottle already."

"Yeah, I don't think you even looked up once, you were too busy stuffing your face," Jonny says.

"Thanks to you," Patrick says. "Oh god, that was a good meal. Thanks, Jonny." He licks his lips, swiping his tongue slowly from corner to corner of his mouth, hoping he didn't get any sauce on his chin; but when he looks up, Jonny's staring at his mouth, looking a little dazed.

A memory comes abruptly to Patrick's mind unbidden: a fuzzy one of him blowing Jonny in their bed, back when they were still living together. Jonny had been staring down at Patrick between his legs, with the same look he has on his face now, and he'd reached down to thumb at Patrick's lips, stretched wide over his cock, slick with spit. "Fuck," Jonny had said hoarsely, "I fucking love your mouth, so pretty - "

Patrick's a little shocked to realize that he's actually getting halfway hard, just thinking of that, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling his cheeks burn. This is the last thing he ought to be thinking of.

"Anyway," he says, clearing his throat and casting about desperately for something innocuous to say, "do you want to take a look at the new sketch, let me walk you through it and tell you what Elliot wanted?"

Jonny blinks slowly at him, like he's emerging from underwater. "I - yeah, sure," he says, and drinks the rest of his wine in one gulp before he pours himself one more glass.

Patrick gets his iPad and swipes to the sketch; Jonny rolls his chair over closer, close enough for their arms to press together as they look at it. Patrick considers moving away, but Jonny's already bent over the screen and looking at it, and, well, Patrick's kind of too full to move, and he can't deny that it's - comforting like this, somehow, having Jonny and his body heat close to him. Jonny's always thrown off heat like he's a portable radiator, and without the heat of the ovens in the kitchen and bodies moving around the bakery, it's been getting chilly, and Patrick's grateful for Jonny's comfortable, familiar warmth.

Jonny listens carefully as he tells him what Elliot had said, frowning deeply, and at the end of it he shakes his head.

"You know, I really think we should go with your idea," he says. "You're a pastry chef - you know what you're doing, and Elliot definitely doesn't have your expertise. So if you say it's going to be too much going on with the cake, you'd be right. I'll speak to him tomorrow. You should just stick to what I approved before."

Patrick takes a moment to appreciate the very different attitude Jonny is taking about his job, in contrast to Elliot's sniping earlier.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I mean, yeah, I'm not going to lie, he can be kind of, uh, _forceful_ , but I get it. He wants his wedding and his cake to be perfect. Do you really want to override his wishes like this?"

"I wouldn't if they were reasonable," Jonny says. "But - honestly, they're ridiculous, and you can't tell me they aren't - and I know what he's like. I know he was probably rude and demanding, and I'm sorry about that. But you don't need to listen to him. He's just - being picky for the sake of it. He tells _me_ he loves it, that he thinks the cake's perfect, but then once my back is turned he calls you and starts making unreasonable demands. I'm not letting that happen again."

Patrick hesitates, wondering if he ought to ask Jonny this, but his curiosity, and maybe the wine, win out. "Do you think - I mean, does he know about _us_? That we used to be together. Is that why he's being - like this?"

Jonny shakes his head. "He doesn't know. I've never told him. It wouldn't make a difference anyway - he's always been, you know. The way he is."

Of course Jonny didn't tell him, Patrick thinks with a strange stab of disappointment. If Elliot knew their pastry chef was his future husband's ex-boyfriend, that might rock the boat a little too hard. But he can't shake that weird feeling of disappointment, and it makes him say, more snarky than he means to sound: "Honestly, I don't know why you're marrying him - didn't think _that_ would be your type."

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Patrick wants to sink into the floor. Jonny looks at him, eyes wide and shocked; but he lets out an audible, shaky exhale of breath before lowering his eyes. He's holding on to his wine glass, and Patrick notices that he's gripping it tight enough for his fingertips to whiten.

"No, you're right. He's not," Jonny says quietly. He looks up, straight into Patrick's face, and his eyes are so dark and intense Patrick can't look away from him. He feels himself holding his breath, looking into Jonny's eyes, the pull that Jonny still has on him thrumming in his veins. "There was only ever one person in my whole life I wanted to marry. But - he didn't want to, and he left me. And after that - it just didn't really matter anymore."

And - jesus. _Jesus._ Patrick's heart is beating a mile a minute in his chest.

It's not true, he knows. Jonny never intended to marry him - Patrick would _know_ if he did. Jonny was always going to marry someone else, someone better. And yet -

"Jonny," he says helplessly, trembling from head to foot. He's leaning forward almost before he realizes it, and Jonny's coming towards him as well, eyes still locked on his, as if there's a rope around the both of them that's tightening slowly, pulling them toward each other. Jonny tilts his head - he's so close now that Patrick can feel his breath against his own lips - and Patrick just _wants_. Wants to fling himself bodily into Jonny's arms and kiss him until they both can't even fucking breathe, until the past and the present are erased -

In the millisecond before their lips meet, Patrick's mind snaps back into place, and he's seized by a wave of panic. What the _fuck_ is he thinking and doing?

He throws himself backwards into his chair with enough force that it actually rolls back a few inches; that puts more separation between him and Jonny, so that's good, he thinks dizzily. Jonny's seated stock-still, frozen in his chair, looking about as shocked and stunned as Patrick feels.

It hurts - actually physically hurts to have to pull back from Jonny like this, when he wants Jonny so badly. After all these years - he just wants to tell him: _I still love you_. The urge to just scream that at him is so strong that he has to literally bite his tongue hard enough for tears to spring to his eyes, determinedly thinking to himself all the while about Jonny's wedding. His fucking cake. His _fiancé_. Jesus.

"What are we doing?" he asks softly; his voice sounds like it's been raked over hot coals. "Jonny - what are we doing? We can't - you're getting _married._ We can't."

Patrick watches as Jonny swallows visibly, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "You're right. Fuck. I'm - so sorry."

"No, it was - I'm sorry," Patrick says. He gets up and starts to clear the boxes away, stuffing them back into the paper bags, his hands still shaking. "I think - it's late. We'd better go."

Jonny scrubs his hand down his face, looking very tired all of a sudden. His face, which had been ruddy from the wine, now looks drained of colour. "I'll drop you home," he says.

"No, there's no need," Patrick says, not looking at him. "I can get a Lyft."

"It's nearly three a.m.," Jonny says. "It's not safe. Please, just let me drop you back. I won't - I'm not going to do anything. I promise."

Patrick feels guilty - if anyone had been doing or initiating anything, it was _him_ \- but he thinks he wouldn't be able to stand being in a car with Jonny, sitting close next to him, after this - this whole stupid debacle. "I'll be fine, really. I've done this a million times before, I always work late." He hands the bag with the used cutlery to Jonny. "I'll take the rest of the trash out."

Jonny looks like he's about to protest and insist on driving Patrick home - and Patrick has some experience with Jonny's stubbornness, so he says quietly, "Go home. To your fiancé."

A haunted look of anguish flickers over Jonny's face for a moment, but then Jonny nods slowly. "Fine. Could you - maybe at least text me when you're home? Just so I know you're safely back."

"I will," Patrick promises. "Go home, Jonny."

He unlocks the door to let Jonny out of the bakery; just before Jonny steps outside, he turns back to look at Patrick again. "I'm really sorry. For everything. All of it."

And Patrick knows he's not just talking about their almost-kiss; he means _everything_. Sorry we broke up. Sorry I did all the things that made you decide to leave me. Sorry that things didn't turn out different and better for us. Sorry the person I'm marrying isn't you. Sorry because it should have been you.

"Me too," he says softly, and watches as Jonny trudges to his waiting car, head down against the wind.

\---

It's past four in the morning by the time Patrick gets home and showers; but he lies in bed wide awake after, blinking into the darkness, physically exhausted but his brain still running at high speed. He'd dropped Jonny a text, like he promised, and Jonny had responded with a simple _good to know, sleep well_.

But he can't make himself fall asleep, even as tired as he is. His mind keeps replaying what happened earlier: Jonny leaning in closer and closer to him, his dark eyes fixed on Patrick; Jonny's lips so close Patrick could feel his breath and smell his cologne. Just half a second and half an inch more, that's all it would have taken, and -

Patrick remembers how Jonny used to kiss him, his big hands cupping Patrick's face while he licked into Patrick's mouth with the same kind of single-minded focus he used to apply to everything he did, whether it was school assignments or fucking him. He wonders if Jonny would have kissed him like that, if they'd closed in on that last half inch between them. If he -

He turns over onto his stomach and shoves his head under his pillow, trying to drown out the thoughts. He can't think about Jonny in that way - Jonny's getting married, it's not right -

Except now that he's started thinking about the way Jonny used to fuck, and his body's - kind of getting into that, really, even as tired as he is. His cock's filling up, pressing against the mattress.

He really should feel more guilty about this, but he doesn't, not when he worms his hand between the bed and his body, cupping it against his cock.

God, that feels good. He can't even - when was the last time he'd actually slept with someone? Not for a year, probably, and he's been so busy and stressed about Jonny and his stupid wedding and his cake that he hasn't even jerked off since he'd been back in contact with Jonny.

His cock's hardening rapidly, just from the pressure of his hand on it, and he flips back onto his back, kicking his sweats off at the same time. He needs this, he reasons; his body needs this release, as a stress reliever if nothing else. And he won't think about Jonny as he does it; he'll think about - his last hook-up, whoever that was. Brian? Brandon? Whatever, he remembers vaguely how the guy looked anyway, and he was tall, built, dark - exactly the type Patrick likes.

He closes his fist around his cock, stroking up and down slowly; it's kind of dry, but he'll get lube later, when he starts really getting into it. Now he just squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think about the time Brian/Brandon was blowing him; his shoulders had been broad, tanned a deep gold, but the imaginary Brian/Brandon in his mind looks up at him, and it's not him at all. It's Jonny's face instead, and Patrick's dick literally twitches a little in his hand.

He fists his cock a little tighter and harder, trying to will the image of Jonny in his head into whichever random dude he can think of, except it's just not happening. His brain's fixated on his memories of Jonny fucking him, flushed and sweaty, face set in that unwavering focus, like his entire being was zeroed in on this, on making Patrick come until he's sobbing from how good it is.

Fuck, okay, whatever, so he can't do this without thinking of Jonny. It's - fine with him. Jonny's never going to know about this anyway.

Patrick sits up and fumbles in his nightstand for his lube, squeezing some out onto his palm before rubbing it over the soft, sensitive head of his dick, letting it run down the shaft. He watches the glistening liquid trickle downwards, and thinks about the time Jonny fingered him for like, over an hour, his fingers pressing purposefully into his prostate and then pulling back whenever Patrick got too close to the edge, and by the end of it Patrick was writhing and begging, vision blurry, but the sight of his come dribbling down his cock while Jonny fingered it out of him is seared into his brain. It's one of the hottest things he can remember.

There's precome beading at the head of his cock now, as if it remembers that day too, and Patrick rubs it into his cockhead, gasping a little as sparks of pleasure flare up in his belly. He strokes himself faster, keeping his thumb on the crown of his cock as he does so, so the quick jerky movements of his arm rub it up and down on the most sensitive part of his head. Jonny used to pay special attention here, too, licking over it slowly whenever he blew Patrick, sucking on just the head while he ran his tongue along the underside and over the slit, and it always drove Patrick fucking crazy.

Patrick's panting now, his breathing loud and quick in the quiet of his room; he lifts his head to look down at himself, and his nipples are taut, dark peaks against his chest, his cock swollen and hot and red. He rubs the tips of two fingers over one nipple, and gasps again, all his nerves tingling. He's always had sensitive nipples, and Jonny really, really liked playing with them. He pinches his nipple, thinking of Jonny looming over him and sucking on it, maybe using a little teeth, and oh - fuck, that's really good, that little jolt of pain mixed in with the pleasure.

He's getting close, but he dimly thinks he maybe needs a little more; he pinches his nipple one more time, rolling it between his fingers until it stands out stiff and swollen, and then he draws his knees up so he can reach between his legs and rub over his hole, soft and tightly furled. The light touch is enough to make his body ripple in a shudder; he thinks about getting the lube again, his fingers are too dry now, but fuck it - it feels too good and he doesn't want to _move_. He brings his fingers back up long enough to suck them into his mouth, getting them wet, before he spits on them and slips them back under his balls, his spit easing the way.

Patrick can feel his hole clenching up and tensing in little flutters as he jerks himself off with quick, smooth strokes; he rubs around the rim, suddenly prickling with desperation for cock - for Jonny's cock. Fuck, if Jonny was here with him he'd - there was this thing Jonny liked to do where he'd put Patrick on his belly and spread his cheeks open and then fuck into him so slowly it was more like a grind than anything else. Just grinding his cock into him, pushing up against his prostate, while Patrick lay there under him, pinned and unable to go anywhere but take it.

Patrick wants that _now_ , so hard his dick's aching with it.

He lets the tip of one finger sink into his hole; his finger's nearly dry by now but his hole still swallows it greedily like it _needs_ , and Patrick moans out loud at the sensation of it, his rim stretching and then closing tight around it, dragging a little but so fucking _good_.

"Oh fuck," he moans, aware that he's speaking out loud to an empty room but way beyond caring. "Oh, god, yeah, that's so good - "

It's not going to take much more than this, Patrick thinks dazedly: just half of one finger and his other hand steadily jacking his cock, and the thought of Jonny pressing him into the bed, his thick, gorgeous cock grinding into him, Jonny's thighs pushed against his spread-open ass while he murmurs filth about how good and tight and amazing Patrick feels around his dick, how he wants to stay right here and fuck Patrick for hours, days, until they're both out of their minds for it -

Patrick comes _hard_ with a shout, his toes curling and cock swelling abruptly in his fist before it pulses, and through the tidal waves of pleasure Patrick can feel the spurts of hot come hit his chest.

Holy _shit_. He comes down slowly, panting, his hand still gripping his still-hard cock, as he stares blearily at the streaks of come across his abs and chest.

"Oh fuck," Patrick says, breathing heavily. He lifts his hand from his cock and stares at the pearlescent come coating his knuckles. He hasn't come this hard - or this _much_ \- since, well, since he can't even remember. "Fuck. Yeah. Okay. That was - good. Yeah."

He feels - it does feel good; his body's loose and relaxed now, the tension he'd been carrying from earlier gone from his neck and shoulders. He thinks he maybe ought to feel a little guilty for jerking off to thoughts of his engaged ex-boyfriend - basically the last thing he ought to do, ever, and certainly not something he'd ever thought of doing when he accepted the request to make Jonny's wedding cake - but fuck it, he thinks with a sudden burst of resolve.

He still loves Jonny, he can't lie about it to himself anymore, and there's a part of him that always will; and if he can accept that and still let Jonny go - well, that's part of his growing process, isn't it? That can only be a good thing. And at the very least, he should be able to jerk off thinking about Jonny, without being consumed by guilt over it.

A wave of tiredness rolls over him suddenly; god, it must be close to dawn by now, and Patrick's only got a precious few hours of sleep before he has to head back to the bakery, so he grabs some tissues from the box on his nightstand and gives himself a cursory cleaning. He's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

\---

**April 2018**

Patrick thinks there might be some awkwardness after that whole situation where he almost _kissed_ Jonny, god, but March melts away into April and there - actually isn't. He and Jonny are still texting regularly, Jonny's still popping into the bakery, sometimes to buy a couple of pastries and sometimes just to say hi, but Patrick's starting to get swamped with Jonny's wedding looming so close, several new pastry debuts at all three of his bakeries, and more interviews; so the few times that Jonny has asked him out to grab dinner he's had to turn him down.

He wonders if Jonny thinks Patrick's deliberately avoiding him after that incident, when ironically he isn't even trying to; but if he does think so, he doesn't mention it. But the times they've seen each other nowadays, Jonny's been kind of - weird. Not awkward per se, but he seems a little quieter than usual, more distracted, like he's constantly thinking about something. He gets fidgety around Patrick too, in a way he's _never_ been - he's always carried himself with a strong, quiet confidence. Patrick's the fidgeter - and it's just - weird, to see Jonny like this, talking to Patrick with his hands squirming restlessly in his pockets and not quite making eye contact a lot of the time

Patrick's been so used to being the main and only focal point of Jonny's attention - which is exactly what it was like for him when they were together; old habits die hard for Patrick, apparently - that it's discomfiting at first to see Jonny not a hundred percent focused on him when they're talking. He has to remind himself - actually lock himself in the bathroom one day, look into the mirror, and say it out loud - that he has no more rights to Jonny's undivided attention, that they aren't anything special anymore, and that Jonny's getting married, so _obviously_ he's going to be distracted and thinking about that instead.

And then there's Elliot, of course.

He'd left Patrick alone for a few weeks - Patrick guesses Jonny must have told Elliot to lay off him - but now that it's April and there's three weeks left to the wedding, Elliot's calling _incessantly_ , demanding constant updates on the progress of the cake.

"I've told you," Patrick says for the millionth time, "right now we're just working on finishing the decorations. All the flowers we're making have to be shaped, petal by petal, by hand, and then painted and accented. Plus there's the scrollwork and borders we need to work on as well. The cake won't - can't be assembled, until all that's done."

"Then how will I know if it's going to look good enough for the wedding, if you can't put it together until the actual day itself?" Elliot says, voice rising.

Patrick sighs. "I can assure you - "

"I don't even know how it's going to taste!"

"Well, yes, about that," Patrick says. "I'll be getting my assistant to contact you, to set up a time for both you and Jon - Mr. Toews to come by for a taste test."

"That had better be happening soon," Elliot says, sounding peevish. Jesus, Patrick can't fucking _stand_ him.

"This week," he says in reply.

Elliot tuts - actually _tuts_ , like he's some sixty year-old and Patrick's a misbehaving child. "Fine, I guess that will do. Make it quick."

He hangs up without so much as a 'bye' or 'thanks'. Fucker.

\---

Ryan sets the meeting up for Saturday; as much as Patrick dislikes Elliot and wants to get this over with, he finds himself getting more anxious as the days tick closer to Saturday. He's not worried about the cake - it's going to be perfect, and screw Elliot for doubting him - but there's this small, guilty part of him that thinks Elliot's going to walk into the bakery, take one look at his face, and _know_ immediately that Patrick's in love with his fiancé, and that they've been spending time together, and nearly kissed.

He and Jonny haven't actually done anything wrong, and he never will because he's not an asshole, so it's dumb; but he can't help that little weight of shame and guilt hanging around in the pit of his stomach whenever he thinks about it.

He decides, though, that maybe he needs to drive the message home a little, so he texts Jonny on Friday night. _Excited for tomorrow?_ he asks, adding a little smiley.

It takes Jonny a surprisingly long time to respond, but when he does, it's not at all what Patrick expects. _Whatever for?_

_Er, for your taste test? Your cake? Your wedding?_

_I'll just see you tomorrow, okay? Goodnight, Pat._

Well, that was abrupt, Patrick thinks, blinking down at his phone. There's something not right, but he doesn't know _what_ , and if he dwells on it anymore, he's just going to drive himself crazy. It's nearly one in the morning, he has a long day ahead, Jonny and Elliot are coming for the taste test, and - he decides to just put Jonny's weirdness out of mind and go to bed.

\---

Patrick hasn't seen Elliot since their very first meeting - all their communication has been done through email or phone - but he's at least right on time, striding into the bakery like he owns it, eyeing everything around him with a mild air of disdain. Ryan arranged for them to be there at four in the afternoon, usually a quiet time for the bakery, but for some reason it's been especially busy today, and even now there's a line at the counter and too many people squeezed into the little space. Patrick watches as someone brushes past Elliot on their way out of the bakery, and Elliot wrinkles his nose as if a bad smell touched him, holding his brushed-wool coat close to his body like it's too good for the peons in the bakery to come anywhere near it. It makes Patrick frown.

Jonny's standing next to Elliot; they're not touching, and Jonny's face looks tight, his lips drawn into a thin line. There's a weird tension in the air, and Patrick wonders what's really going on between them, because they don't act like any affiancéd couple he's ever seen; then he gives himself a little shake, because it's none of his business.

"Thanks for coming, Mr. Toews, Mr. Worthington," he says. He carefully averts his eyes from Jonny and keeps them on Elliot instead; even though he doesn't want to look at him any more than is necessary, he still can't shake that stupid feeling that if he so much as makes eye contact with Jonny, Elliot's going to _know_. "This way, please."

He leads the way through the back of the bakery into the kitchen where the cake for the taste test is waiting on the counter. Patrick's decorated it just like he would have for one of the tiers of the actual cake, except in miniature; the flowers are scaled down to match the size of it, delicate lacework wrapped around it. It looks good, even to his exacting standards; the fondant is a perfect smooth ivory, the flower petals delicate, thin and flawlessly painted with petal dust, and the result makes the cake look like it has a profusion of gorgeous springtime flowers blooming out of it.

"Well, here's how it'll look," Patrick says, gesturing at it. He remembers, abruptly, that the last time he'd done a test bake, Jonny had already been here and seen it and loved it. He doesn't think Elliot knows that Jonny's already seen it, and that sick feeling of wrongness is back in his chest. "This is how your bottommost tier will look - except bigger, obviously - and the rest of the tiers will follow the decorative theme. Your cake toppers are in the midst of being painted, but they will be done in a few days, and like you asked for previously, the top tier will be naked apart from the fondant covering, the toppers, and gold dust. And, you know, I'll cut it open for you in a moment, and you can see the inside layers, and taste it for yourself."

Jonny's nodding along, as if he's never seen the cake in his life. "It looks really good," he says. "Beautiful work."

Despite himself, a burst of warmth blooms in Patrick's chest; but it's stopped stone-cold when he glances over at Elliot. His lips are pursed and he's frowning, he's looking at the cake as if it's dirt he's just found on his expensive leather Yves Saint Laurent shoes.

"Is something wrong?" he asks Elliot.

"I'd say there is," Elliot snaps. "I don't know about Jon, but this is definitely not what I wanted. How is that a good wedding cake? Are you kidding me?"

Throughout these months, Patrick's been fairly able to keep his anger under check whenever Elliot starts in on him like this, because they've never been face to face; but right now, seeing the sneer on Elliot's stupid, pretty, vapid face brings the rage boiling to the surface. He takes a step closer to him. "Excuse me?"

"It doesn't work," Elliot says, shaking his head. "It's too _much_. Look at it - it's covered in flowers and lace and there are like a million different colours. I said I wanted something _classy_ , oh my god - was that too hard for you to understand?"

"What you said," Patrick says slowly, feeling his hands start to tremble, "is that you wanted more colours and more flowers. You didn't like how it looked originally. You specifically asked for more colours because it was 'boring' - would you like me to pull up our log? I keep a log of every communication we had."

"I don't - I'm not the pastry chef here, okay? I told you what I wanted, but if it didn't look good, it's _your_ job to tell me! And you didn't do your damn job - you've been crappy at this for months. Honestly, I have no idea how you won all those awards - you're nowhere near as good as your press made me think you were! I hope you're paying your PR a hell of a lot for this - "

Patrick's never wanted to punch someone so _badly_ in his life - he's clenched his hand into a fist even without realizing it - but before he can move, Jonny steps smoothly in front of him, blocking Elliot from his view. Patrick doesn't know what he's going to do next - he's this close to shoving Jonny aside and just going at Elliot, or yelling at Jonny to stop protecting him, to tell him that he's a horrible fucking human being - but the look on Jonny's face makes him draw up. Jonny's _furious_ ; his eyes are hard and black and glittering with anger, his lips compressed. But Jonny's not mad at him. He's mad at Elliot.

"Elliot, shut up," he says. His voice is level, but Patrick can hear the barely-suppressed anger steaming just beneath the surface. He can't look away, though; Jonny's still staring at him, like he's the only thing he can see, and he's not looking at Elliot at all. "Apologize to Mr. Kane."

"What?" Elliot sputters. "He - what the hell? He's botched my cake, Jon, and it's three weeks to the wedding - and you want _me_ to apologize?"

"Mr. Kane is an incredibly talented, hard working chef, and he's spent a lot of time on this cake, making changes to _your_ specifications, because you just had to pick at it and be unhappy about it every step of the way. You just insulted him, and his team, and the hours he's put in. Apologize."

"I'm not going to," Elliot says. His handsome face is drawn into an ugly scowl. It's surprising how ugly someone so beautiful can get, Patrick thinks suddenly, when their true nature is revealed.

"Fuck this," Patrick says out loud, surprising even himself. Elliot's eyes swing over to him, and for the first time Patrick notices that his eyes are the same shade of blue as his own. It's weird, noticing all these tiny details in the midst of all this bullshit going on, but Patrick feels kind of - out of it, like he's not entirely in control of his own body, like he's looking down on this from above or something. "I don't need his apology. Just - get out. I'm not making your cake. Find yourself another pastry chef."

"There is no fucking way we can find another baker to make the cake this close to the wedding - what the fuck!" Elliot yells. "You're - we have a contract - I'm going to sue the hell out of you! Do you know who my father is? He'll file a lawsuit and you'll deserve it, and you - "

"Elliot," Jonny says, finally swinging round to stare Elliot down. He's not even raising his voice, but amazingly Elliot stops ranting and goes quiet. "Leave. Now."

There's a moment where Patrick thinks Elliot's actually going to do as he's told; but after a couple of seconds Elliot takes a breath and sets his face into a stubborn, tight expression. "Not until he apologizes to me and fixes that cake!"

Patrick spits out an incredulous laugh. "I told you, I'm not doing your damn cake. Find someone else to put up with you, dickwad. And you can sue me all you want, I don't give a shit."

"I won't let him do that," Jonny says. "Elliot, _leave_. Get out."

Elliot stares at Patrick, then at Jonny, and then back to Patrick again. "No one's ever - dared to talk to me like that."

Patrick laughs again. "Maybe someone should have when you were growing up, then you wouldn't be such a twat now."

There's a dim part of his brain that knows oh, shit, he's going to be in so much trouble; he has no doubt that Elliot will pull a lawsuit on him, given that his father is, after all, the MD of a big law firm. But right now, he couldn’t care less. There's a feeling of recklessness growing in him by the second that feels very much like freedom; and after months of dealing with Elliot's bullshit, working so hard at being professional and doing his best to design something good for him even after all his history with Jonny, he feels like he's finally thrown the shackles off. And it's so _liberating_.

Elliot whips around abruptly and Patrick thinks he's going to leave finally, but instead he heads straight to where the cake is sitting on the counter. Before either he or Jonny can stop him, he's picked the cake up and flung it onto the floor at Patrick's feet. It smashes onto the tile with a dull thud; the delicate sugar flowers tumble off and shatter, and the fondant splits apart to reveal the pale pink sponge and smooth ivory buttercream, now mashed together beyond recognition. Some of the cream splatters on Patrick's shoes.

Patrick gasps and jerks involuntarily towards the cake; Jonny grasps his elbow as if he thinks Patrick's going to bend down and pick up the cake with his bare hands or something, but he shakes him off. A feeling of nausea is rising in his throat at the sight of months of his hard work and planning, on the floor of his bakery, completely ruined.

"Get out," he says when he finally finds his voice. "Get out of my bakery or I'm going to call the fucking police because you're damaging my property."

The door opens; Alex and Ryan poke their heads in. "Patrick, is everything - holy _shit_ ," Ryan says, turning pale when he spots the smashed cake on the floor. "What the - what's going on?"

Patrick doesn't know what Ryan is seeing, but it can't look good, with him and Jonny together on one side and Elliot in front like the points of the world's most tense triangle, Jonny looking white and furious, Patrick breathing hard, Elliot's face scrunched into a scowl.

"Alex, Ryan," Patrick says, "escort Mr. Worthington off the premises, please. I don't want him within twenty feet of my bakery."

"I'll leave when I fucking want to!" Elliot shouts.

"No, you'll leave _now_ ," Jonny says, sounding dangerous and incensed. "I don't want to repeat myself again. Go."

Elliot stares at him and at the grim faces of Ryan and Alex; apparently realizing that he's finding no support here, he turns and stalks towards the door. Just as he reaches it, he turns back. "Well?" he snaps at Jonny. "Aren't you coming? We have a lawsuit to file, Jon."

"No, I don't," Jonny says. "And neither do you. Go home and I'll sort this out with you later."

"I'm going to my father's," Elliot snaps. "And you'd better find some way to deal with this, Jon! I need a wedding cake for my wedding!"

Alex says firmly, "This way out", and places his body square between the door and Elliot, so Elliot has no choice but to huff and finally, blessedly leave. Alex follows close behind him, but Ryan stays, looking uncertainly at Jonny and Patrick.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

With Elliot gone, the fight drains out of Patrick; he slumps over the counter with his head down and his hands gripping it, breathing hard, trying to slow down his racing pulse. Next to him, he feels Jonny put a tentative hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently, and he thinks he really should - maybe not let Jonny touch him, or whatever, but he's just _done_ with everything, all reserves of energy sapped from him. "Yeah, I'm fine. Can you just - get someone to come and clean up, please?"

Ryan's still looking in at them doubtfully. "Uh, I don't think I should leave you alone right now, with - "

"He's fine," Patrick says. "Don't worry, I'm okay with him. Go get someone, Ryan. I think I'll just take a break in the office."

"Um, okay," Ryan says, and leaves. By the time he comes back with Dylan and Connor, both of them holding mops and buckets, Patrick's steady enough to stand upright. He thanks them quickly before he goes to his office, still trembling a little from the residual adrenaline, and Jonny follows silently.

The minute the door clicks shut behind them, Jonny turns him around by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks. "I am - I'm so sorry, Patrick."

Patrick rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. "Fuck. No. I was unprofessional, and I swore I wouldn't be. I told myself when I took this request from you that I wouldn't be unprofessional just because you were my ex - and now I'm getting _sued_ \- "

"You won't," Jonny says. "He can't. If he does, I'll drop his father's law firm from the company's retainer. He knows what a blow that would be to his father - he would never do it."

Patrick laughs bitterly. "Fucking christ. I never should have done it. I knew it was a bad idea, taking this request. But Sharpy - he said if I didn't do it, it'd prove I wasn't over you, and I wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he was right - "

Jonny goes very, very still. "What?"

Patrick raises his eyes to Jonny; his eyes are very dark and intense. He remembers suddenly how Sharpy used to call him 'Tazer', as a play on his last name and his laser-sharp gaze. "I - thought I could do it," he whispers. "I thought I could do it, and then let you go once and for all, once you were married to someone else - but I didn't let you go just so you could end up marrying some dumbfuck bratty _asshole_."

"Patrick," Jonny breathes, looking stunned.

He turns, shrugging Jonny's hands off his shoulders, and walks towards the cupboard behind his desk, where he pulls out a bottle of his emergency-only brandy and two glasses. "I think we need a drink," he says, pouring a finger into each glass. The brandy sloshes around a little because he's still shaking slightly, but he holds a glass out until Jonny walks over jerkily and takes it from him.

"Tesseron Trésor Grande," Jonny observes, looking at the bottle. Patrick nods.

Jonny wets his lips. "Patrick," he says. "Will you - we need to talk."

"I figured," Patrick says. He takes a sip of the brandy, letting the heat of it flare up in him from the inside out.

"First," Jonny says quietly, "will you finally tell me why you left me? All these years, I've been thinking about it - and I never could figure it out, no matter how many times I ran it through my head. And it's _killing_ me. I keep wondering what I could have done differently, what I should have fixed so you never left."

Patrick takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "I guess I owe you that much."


	3. Chapter 3

**May 2010**

"No," Patrick says; he's so angry he's shaking. "I'm not coming with you. And I can't believe you didn't even fucking _ask_ me first."

Jonny's standing across the room, glaring at him, looking about as mad as Patrick feels; the fury's radiating off him in waves, but Patrick's not backing down on this, and fuck Jonny if he thinks he's going to. "I thought you'd be glad - for years all you've done is get upset about me going home for summers or for Christmas - and now that I'm asking you to come with me to Paris, you get mad?"

"Because you didn't ask me first!" Patrick explodes. "You just assumed I'd be willing to go with you - to a place like _Paris_ , and meet your parents, and your parents' actual business associates, and be paraded around like - no, you should have fucking asked if I'd be comfortable with it! And I'm not, period."

"What is wrong with you?" Jonny says, his voice raised. "It's a - you don't have to pay a cent, I'm covering everything, I even arranged to get your passport done for you, and all you need to do is come with me because I want you with me, for fucking once!"

"And _this_ is the problem!" Patrick yells. "You just think you can - throw money at every problem and it'll be magically solved. You think just because you're going to pay for my trip it means I should be happy that you're dragging me along. Well, I'm not! All these years - you've swept me along with whatever you decide to do, because you've got the money to do whatever you want, and I don't. And it's just - look, you can't keep assuming I'll follow along behind you whenever you want me to."

"So that's it?" Jonny says bitterly. "You're getting mad at me because I was born into a wealthy family? Because I use my money to keep _you_ comfortable and happy and make sure you don't ever want for anything?"

"I - jesus, no, that's not it at all," Patrick says. "You know I don't think that - it's just, okay, listen to me. You want something, and you're used to getting what you want all your life, and that's fine, but then you get like a - a _bulldozer_ about it, Jonny. You just plough on ahead without thinking about how it'll affect me, or whether I want the same thing - you don't ask me first, and that's - "

"But - this is what I thought you wanted," Jonny says, and he looks so honestly bewildered that Patrick almost wants to thump his forehead into the wall, because Jonny's just not _getting the point_. "You're always upset being alone on holidays - and my parents asked me to bring you along this time - I thought you'd be glad."

"Okay, that's not the point," Patrick says. "I'm trying to say you _always_ do this. You just decide you want something, and then you pull me along in your tide without considering how I feel about it or how it'll impact me - why don't you think about me for once, Jonny?"

Jonny looks at him; his face is shocked and bloodless, like he can't believe what he's hearing. He takes two strides, closing the distance between them, until he's close enough for their chests to nearly touch.

"All I do," Jonny whispers, "all I ever fucking do, is think about _you_ , and how I can make you happy. I don't know what else you want me to do."

He turns on his heel before Patrick can find his voice, and walks out of the bedroom. Patrick hears the slam of the front door a few seconds later, and his knees start shaking; he has to sit down on the bed so he won't just crumple.

\---

Patrick's in the kitchen heating up water for instant ramen when he hears the snick of the lock and Jonny coming in. He's still not entirely over their fight, but he can't help feeling relieved that Jonny's back, that he came home. They don't fight often, but every time they do, it makes Patrick feel sick at heart in a way that he can't shake off for a couple of days.

He wonders if Jonny's still mad at him.

Jonny comes into the kitchen then; he's holding takeaway boxes from a sushi place near their building. "What are you doing?" he asks, stopping at the sight of Patrick standing in front of the electric kettle.

"Just - boiling water. For food."

Jonny glances at the package of ramen sitting on the counter. "That's not food. I got us dinner." He puts the boxes on the island, and then comes over to where Patrick is and starts to pull out plates and cutlery, before he suddenly freezes.

"I mean, if you want. I got us dinner, if you want some. If you'd rather eat ramen, that's fine."

And - god, Jonny's actually trying, to be better at this whole thing about letting Patrick make his own decisions; and even though it's over something as trivial as dinner, it's still something. "Yeah, it's fine, I want sushi," Patrick says, and clicks the kettle off.

Jonny turns towards him, and he looks about as miserable as Patrick's ever seen him. At least Jonny's not mad at him, then. "Babe, I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't realize - it didn’t occur to me that it might have been something you didn't want. I just thought - anyway, you were right, and I was thoughtless. I'll be better in the future. And - you don't have to come with me, if you don't want to. I won't force you."

"I'm sorry too," Patrick whispers. "I didn't mean to fight - I was just so _frustrated_ \- "

"Hey, no," Jonny says, putting the plates down and drawing Patrick into a hug. "You're good. I'm sorry I was being selfish."

Patrick sinks gratefully into Jonny's arms. "It's okay. I'll go with you to Paris. If you really want me to."

"Wait - are you sure?" Jonny asks doubtfully, pulling back; Patrick misses the warmth of his arms right away. "You were so - against it, earlier."

"Yeah," Patrick admits, "but - I mean, I guess I wasn't really being fair to you either. I know you meant well. I know you're excited about going to Paris with me before graduation. And, well, I'm gonna be real here - spending a couple of weeks in Paris with you isn't going to be a hardship. Right?"

The relief and delight that breaks out on Jonny's face is nearly blinding; it's that look on his face, more than anything else, that convinces Patrick he's making the right decision. "It's definitely not. It's going to be great, I promise you. I'll take you around the city - show you my favourite neighbourhoods - and you’ll love the bakeries there. The most gorgeous little tarts and pastries you've ever seen."

Patrick brightens. "Sounds amazing," he says, smiling up at Jonny, and when Jonny hugs him again, their earlier fight's driven entirely out of his mind.

\---

Jonny's parents send their private jet for Jonny - because of course they do. Of fucking course Patrick's first ever international flight is going to be on the private jet of a billionaire family.

"You have got to be joking," he says when they board. The interiors of the plane are just - out of this world; cream leather everywhere, wood panelling, marble fittings, and there's even a bedroom. And a _shower_. And a bar. It's fucking insane.

Jonny looks confused. "What?" he says, settling himself into the plush, gigantic leather seat directly opposite Patrick's. Which can apparently swivel to face any direction in the plane, with a fold-out table between both seats, so he and Jonny can eat or drink and still face each other.

"This plane is _crazy_ ," Patrick hisses.

Jonny flushes. "It's just a normal plane."

Patrick stares - literally _glares_ \- at him. "Jonny, even you ought to know this isn't normal."

"I mean, normal for private planes," Jonny clarifies - like that makes it any better. "You should see some of my friends' families' planes."

"Well, I'm not going to, because for one, I don't have friends hanging out in such rarefied circles, _Jonathan_ , and for another, just seeing yours is more than enough."

"What can I say?" Jonny says, shrugging. "My parents wanted me to bring my boyfriend over in style."

"Yeah, and that's funny too, considering that they didn't want to see me or hear about me for the last four years, and suddenly they're all - _'bring him to Paris on our private jet'_?"

Patrick's not even sure why he's feeling so - irritated and discomfited by everything. The last place on earth anyone ought to be uncomfortable in is a luxurious private plane like this, going on a pre-graduation summer vacation to Paris - but he _is_ , and it's prickling under his skin, making him antsy and snappy.

Jonny seems to know how he's feeling, because he leans forward and grasps Patrick's hands. "Listen, it's going to be fine. My parents aren't tyrants, you know - they're perfectly normal people, and they'll love you."

Patrick looks out of the window. The plane's already making its way slowly to the runway for takeoff. "They thought I was with you for your money, right? That's why they never wanted to meet me."

Jonny hesitates; that one moment is enough to tell Patrick everything he needs to know. He keeps staring out of the window; he doesn't feel like he can look at Jonny right now. This - this was one of the reasons he didn't want to go to Paris with Jonny; he knows Jonny's parents don't accept him, and think of him as a gold digger or whatever, in such a humiliating, derogatory manner -

"I mean, it's - pretty common, you know this, for people to like, try to be friends with me or whatever, even now, because of - my family. They're just wary and looking out for me. But we've been together so long, and I talk to them about you all the time - trust me, they don't dislike you, they were just careful. We always have to be careful. But I love you, and I promise you, they will too."

It's something Patrick's suspected for years, but to have it confirmed like this - well, this isn't the first time that the gulf between them feels like it stretches a chasm so wide that Patrick can't see the other side. But it's the first time it actually cuts deep enough that Patrick feels maybe even Jonny's love isn't enough to bridge this.

But Jonny's looking at him hopefully, and the plane's taking off, and hell, he's going to Paris with the man he loves, so Patrick swallows the hurt down and pastes a bright smile on his face, until his cheeks ache. "Yeah. We got this."

\---

Patrick sits numbly all through the car ride through Paris' tight, narrow streets, too nervous to even enjoy his first look at the city. Jonny's home in Paris turns out to be a duplex apartment in the 7th Arrondissement, with a large terrace and an uninterrupted view of the Eiffel Tower; even a pleb like Patrick can guess at the cost and upkeep of a duplex in a prime area of Paris like this. But he barely blinks when Jonny guides him into the enormous, luxurious apartment, the driver left behind to deal with their bags, because he's too busy feeling anxious at the sight of Jonny's parents coming down the stairs to greet them.

Jonny hugs his father, kisses his mother on the cheek, and after a rapid exchange in French, he draws Patrick forward. "Maman, dad, this is Patrick."

Patrick's suddenly very aware of his worn sneakers and soft, faded grey hoodie; all he'd thought about was being comfortable on the flight and not how he'd look. But right here in Jonny's opulent family home - one of several his family have around the world - and Jonny's mother elegantly dressed in cream silk with pearl earrings, he feels, very acutely, that he's nothing more than an urchin Jonny plucked off the street and brought home - which wouldn't be too far from the truth.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gilbert, Mr. Toews," he says politely, hoping that he doesn't sound shaky, and holds out his hand.

Mr. Toews grasps his hand and pumps it heartily. "Welcome!" he says warmly. "Glad to finally meet you, son - I trust the flight here was comfortable."

"Uh, yes, of course it was, thank you," Patrick says, relaxing the tiniest bit. Bryan Toews is warm and smiley and friendly, and it makes Patrick feel slightly better.

Jonny's mother, though - she just looks at him for a couple of seconds, her expression inscrutable, and it occurs to Patrick that Jonny's inherited that same steely glare she has; but then she steps forward and, instead of taking his hand, draws him into a hug. "We're very pleased to meet you, Patrick," she says, her English flawless but seasoned with a strong French accent, her vowels softly rounded. "Make yourself at home, and please, don't be shy about speaking up if you need something while you're staying with us."

She smiles at him when she pulls back from the hug, and Patrick - he feels so relieved, the tension in his body draining out, that he finds himself wondering why his knees haven't yet given way beneath him. Maybe they're just _pretending_ to be nice and welcoming, for Jonny's sake - but it's far preferable to the doomsday scenario he had been cooking up in his head, in which Jonny's parents take one look at him and order him thrown out for being so transparently a gold digger, or however they think of him.

"Thank you so much," he says.

"Why don't you boys freshen up and have a rest - Jonathan, go ask the housekeeper for some food if you're both hungry - and tonight we'll go out for dinner together," Ms. Gilbert says.

"Come on, Patrick, I'll show you around the apartment," Jonny says, putting his hand on the small of his back, and Patrick leans back into the reassuring weight of it.

As they head up the staircase, Jonny whispers, "See, I told you there was nothing to worry about."

Patrick smiles at him but shrugs. "Don't speak too soon. Murphy's Law, you know."

\---

The next few days are a whirlwind; Jonny takes Patrick out a lot, to show him around Paris, but he also meets up with friends a lot, and there are always friends of Jonny's or his parents' coming in and out of the apartment. Jonny's younger brother, David, shows up with his girlfriend a couple of days later; Gail is Canadian, and they're both friendly and nice, but any thoughts Patrick had of maybe bonding with Gail over the wealthy European contingent that make up Jonny's and David's friend circles are quickly dashed when he finds out Gail is the only daughter of some oil tycoon in Alberta.

Patrick can't help but feel uncomfortable around these people; he doesn't speak the language, doesn't come from minor European nobility or limitless wealth, and they're all always so well-groomed and impeccably put together that it makes him feel self-conscious.

He knows Jonny doesn't care if he's in simple jeans and a soft henley and scuffed sneakers, but when he's seated next to Jonny and his friends in a bistro along the Seine, all of them talking and laughing in French, the guys wearing nice open-necked shirts and leather shoes and the girls in pretty summer dresses - even the beautifully plated desserts and pastries don't lift his mood. It's not the greatest feeling, especially when he can't understand a word and no one really makes an effort to include him in conversation, not even Jonny, who keeps hold of his hand but is otherwise engrossed with his friends, his face bright and animated and happy.

Patrick gets it - he really does. Jonny goes to Paris only once or twice a year, maybe, and doesn't get to meet up with these friends often. But his friends are all from families nearly as illustrious as Jonny's, and think nothing of dropping thousands of euros on a single dinner or a night of clubbing; they attend university in cities like London and Zurich and talk about ski vacations or studying for MBAs at schools like Mannheim so they can take over the reins of multinational corporations, and that's just - it's a world that Patrick just can't understand, much less inhabit.

He and Jonny have talked before about what they'll do post-graduation, of course. He knows Jonny wants to get an MBA at a grad school close to where Patrick will be, before taking on a role in his parents' organization that's been tailor-made for him, while Patrick's decided to go to culinary school - but he also knows that Jonny could be like his friends, doing his MBA program in some prestigious, two hundred-year-old European school, instead of staying in America because that's where Patrick is. It makes Patrick wonder if he's - maybe holding Jonny back, sometimes.

Watching Jonny laugh at something one of the guys is saying - in French far too fast and advanced for Patrick to even pick up the gist - Patrick feels that gulf between them stretching wider by the day, each day that they're in Paris, like some angry mythological giant has brought his axe down over and over and cleaved this wide, gaping canyon between them.

\---

One morning Patrick wakes up and Jonny's not in bed next to him, which is - not at all common, so he hurries to shower and dress, wondering if Jonny had some plans without him today and forgot to tell him.

He hops down the staircase two steps at a time, almost crashing into Andree and Bryan at the foot. "Oh - god, I'm so sorry," he stammers, skidding to a halt by grabbing on to the railing. "Good morning, Mr. Toews, Ms. Gilbert."

He feels himself flush; despite seeing them both fairly often in the past week and having dinner with them most evenings, he's still not entirely at ease around them, unable to shake off his shyness and discomfort in surroundings that are far too luxurious for the likes of him.

"Good morning, Patrick," Andree says. "Are you looking for Jonathan? He went out."

"Already?" Patrick asks, surprised.

"Yes - did he forget to tell you, then? His good friend Eléonore just arrived today from her school in Switzerland, and he's having brunch with her."

Eléonore - why is that name so familiar? It dawns on Patrick in a rush: the girl who'd spent Christmas last year in Montréal with Jonny, the one who'd spoken to him while he was on the phone with Patrick, her voice so close that it sounded as if she'd been pressed up right against his body.

Andree studies Patrick's face for a moment; Patrick doesn't know what she's seeing on it, but he feels like he's been stuffed into a block of ice and can't breathe.

 _No, don't be stupid,_ he thinks wildly to himself. _They're just friends - both Jonny and Andree say so - and don't, don't act like a dumbass in front of his mother._

He manages a stiff smile, his mouth feeling like it's unwilling to twist upwards. "Oh, I see. He must have forgotten to tell me about it. I think he's mentioned Eléonore to me before, but I haven't met her."

"Oh, you will soon, she's here at our home very often," Andree says. "And she'll be at the party this weekend, before you and Jonny return to the States - they're very close childhood friends, they've grown up together really."

Patrick keeps right on smiling. "That's great. I'm looking forward to meeting her."

Andree's frowning a little at him. "Are you okay, Patrick? You seem pale today."

"I'm just hungry," Patrick lies. Food is the last fucking thing he wants right now, when his stomach's churning.

"Oh, well, go into the dining room - there's breakfast laid out already, and if you want more, just let our chef know."

"I will," Patrick says. "Thank you."

He steps aside politely to allow Bryan and Andree to go up the stairs first; he'll wait till they've gone up before he goes back up and hides in Jonny's room, until Jonny decides to come back, whenever that is. But he hears Bryan mention his name - they probably think he's gone on down the stairs and is out of hearing range - and straightens up, listening curiously.

"I like him," Bryan's saying. "He's a sweet, polite boy."

"Oh, he's a darling," Andree says. "But you know what I'm like."

"Too protective of Jonathan for your own good," Bryan says, chuckling. Their voices are getting fainter; they must be walking towards their suite of rooms, and Patrick - he knows it's not right, but he's seized with an impulsive, morbid curiosity. He climbs up quietly just a few steps more, staying just out of sight behind the corner, hoping to hear as much as he can before they go in and then he won't be able to hear shit.

"I can't help it," Andree says with a sigh. "Patrick's a lovely boy, but well - he's no Eléonore. I almost feel bad for Patrick - there's just no competition, really."

"Come on, Andree," Bryan says; his voice is getting softer and more muffled as the sound of their steps on the marble floor click away. "You know what Jonathan said; he's going to get married no matter what, and besides, he's already got the ring. He's probably showing it to Eléonore right now."

"Yes, and I'm sure he's making the right choice, but - "

The thud of their door cuts off the rest of Andree's words.

Patrick stands, frozen, trying to process what he's hearing. Jonny told his parents he's getting married - he has a _ring_ \- for who?

His brain cycles rapidly through what he's just overheard, trying to piece it all together. Andree saying she feels bad for Patrick - why would she? Bryan telling Andree that Jonny has a ring, that no matter what, he's getting married to -

Someone who isn't Patrick.

Someone else more suited to his wealth, and social status, who's the _right choice_ for him. Someone whom Jonny's out with right now, who Jonny got a ring for. The ring that he's going to propose with, probably at this very moment.

He doesn't understand - why did Jonny bring him here, introduce him to his friends and family, subject him to this sort of cruel, derisive humiliation, when his plan is to marry someone more suitable for the scion of the Toews-Gilbert Group? When he's even told his parents about this plan?

And then it hits him: Jonny knew this all along, that there was no future for them after these idyllic days of college, because they're going to have to split up after graduation. Jonny _knew_ , and that's why he's doing this; it's his goodbye for Patrick.

All Patrick can think is that he didn't even fucking want to come to Paris. He thinks about the fight they'd had about it, and he wishes - fuck - he wishes so hard he'd stuck to his guns about it and not given in, because then maybe - then Jonny couldn't have brought him here. Couldn't have made this his goodbye.

Patrick doesn't know how long he stands there, at the stair landing, feeling like he's suffocating under a thick sheet of ice-cold water. He's breathing so hard, almost struggling for air; he starts to feel a little lightheaded and dizzy, like he's going to pass out right fucking here.

But he can't. He _can't_. He's not going to let anyone in this house stumble across him like this and see how weak he is. Because he's not.

Patrick grits his teeth, pulls himself upright, and goes to Jonny's room. It's dark because the housekeeper hasn't yet come in to make the bed and pull the curtains open, so Patrick just slides gratefully under the covers. He stays there and doesn't move for a long time.

\---

He doesn't mention anything to Jonny, mainly because he thinks it wouldn't be good for him to break up with Jonny here. Far better for him to be back on home ground, in the U.S., when he can do it properly, move his things out of their - Jonny's apartment as quickly and quietly as possible, rather than break up _now_ and then endure a miserable few days with Jonny before they fly back.

So he tries to act normal, but he knows he's not really succeeding; he feels like - everything is quiet and cold, like he's weirdly dissociated from his own body, and Jonny keeps glancing at him over dinner, squeezing his hand, asking if he's okay. Every time Jonny displays any of this solicitude, it makes Patrick curl up a little more inside.

When they're in bed that night, Jonny leans over and tries to kiss him, but Patrick turns away. "I'm tired and I'm not feeling real good," he says. "Can we just sleep, please?"

He catches a flash of surprise on Jonny's face as he rolls over - Patrick's never not kissed him, not even when he was down with the flu and green around his mouth, coughing and sniffling and snotty. "Yeah, of course," Jonny says. "Tell me if you don't feel better in the morning, okay? I'll get a doctor in to look at you."

Patrick hates him at that moment - he wants to _scream_ , to tell Jonny to just - stop caring about him, stop loving him, if they're going to have to split up.

"Okay," he says instead, hating himself too.

\--

The party Andree and Bryan are throwing for Jonny the night before they leave is supposed to be a graduation party for Jonny - since neither of them are able to attend his graduation because of some pressing business trip - but it's also a means for them to show Jonny off as the heir to the Toews-Gilbert Group to their various business partners and associates, and to some of the most wealthy and important people in Europe. The spacious duplex feels positively crowded, wall to wall with millionaires from Monaco, shipping tycoons from Greece, chairmen and CEOs of various European conglomerates.

Patrick ends up trailing behind Jonny awkwardly, as he moves around the room, talking to and charming everyone in his way. He looks hot as hell in a black Ermenegildo Zegna suit, but for the first time in his life Patrick doesn't - can't concentrate on the breadth of Jonny's shoulders, or the thickness of his arms and thighs. He feels like an afterthought, as he follows behind Jonny quietly like poop trailing from a goldfish, even though he's dressed in a Karl Lagerfeld suit that Jonny had specially tailored for Patrick. Just for this party.

It's charity, he thinks distractedly, plucking at the cuffs. It's something he's sometimes felt, all these years while he's been practically living off Jonny, but never as thickly as it feels now.

His mood only darkens when nearly every time Jonny introduces Patrick to someone, he'll say "this is my boyfriend, Patrick", sounding so fucking _proud_ , like he hasn't fucking set his own expiration date on their relationship. And almost without fail, that someone will say, "What do you do, Patrick? Will you be going into business, like Jonathan here?"

"No," Patrick replies curtly each time, "I'm going to culinary school." And then he'll watch as the person's smile falls, as they look away from him like they're not sure how to react to this pauper in their midst, and continue speaking to Jonny like he's invisible.

He's already feeling downright shitty when a tall, gorgeous girl with long blonde hair, wearing an elegant dress that's wrapped close to her slender figure, suddenly flings herself into Jonny's arms. "Jonathan," she exclaims, and kisses him on the cheek, before launching into more French.

Fuck, but Patrick hates that fucking language.

Jonny's - laughing, talking to her, looking down at her with his eyes bright. He's clearly in a fantastic mood, despite Patrick's silence throughout the evening. "Pat! You have to meet Eléonore - Eléonore, this is Patrick. I'm glad you guys finally get to meet."

Oh, so this is _the_ Eléonore, Patrick thinks, gazing up at her with a growing feeling of resignation; Eléonore Fournier, daughter of a French shipping magnate, tall, elegant, gorgeous, Jonny's childhood friend, probable future Toews wife, and everything Patrick's not.

"Patrick!" Eléonore says; even her voice is attractive, fucking hell, softly accented and sweet. "Please, don't be strangers; Jon has told me so much about you." She bends down - actually has to bend a little, what the fuck - to kiss Patrick on the cheek, and laughs gaily at the lipstick mark she's left on his face, before rubbing it off with her thumb.

"Hello," Patrick says, strangled; Jonny looks at him oddly, but he ignores him. He's too busy trying to suppress the urge to tell Eléonore that Jonny's barely told him anything about her.

"Okay, I have to go say hello to Andree and Bryan - but you, we will catch up later," she says, winking at Jonny, before turning into the crowd. Patrick watches her as she makes her way to Andree, confident in a way he could never be, and is immediately swept up in a hug and cheek kisses and delighted conversation.

Andree never looked this pleased to see him, Patrick thinks, feeling very exhausted all of a sudden.

\---

The night wears on; Jonny hardly seems to notice that Patrick's gone all quiet next to him, as caught up as he is with talking to people and catching up with friends, and of course there's Eléonore. She seems to have pinned herself to Jonny's side, always talking to him with her hand on his arm or shoulder, and she knows _everyone_ in the fucking room.

It also means that Patrick has like, two hours to watch them both together from up close, so he can see how comfortable they are with each other. How Jonny seems so happy to be around her; how _touchy_ Eléonore gets, and how Jonny doesn't mind it or brush her off. How she conducts herself so gracefully, strolling around the room like she belongs here, in all this wealth and privilege - which she does.

Patrick doesn't know how he never saw it for the past four years; but now he can see quite clearly that he and Jonny were never meant to be. A king isn't meant to rule with a church mouse by his side.

\---

When they get home, Patrick waits for a day when Jonny's out running errands and working out, and starts packing right away, as quick as he can. He doesn't have much; most things he has were bought by Jonny, and he doesn't think it's right to take those with him, so he leaves them, all the clothes and expensive watches and cufflinks. There are photographs and mementos all over the apartment; Patrick looks at them helplessly before giving in to the impulse to take one, just one - a picture of Jonny and him on the quad at school, gazing at each other, Jonny smiling down at him so fondly it makes his heart _hurt_. Patrick thinks that picture was taken by Marcus, maybe; he got it framed once he had the print, and it's sat on the desk in the bedroom ever since. It's a good memory, one that Patrick wants to keep, so he can at least remember that his relationship with Jonny had been happy and good before everything went to hell.

He's ready and packed with two suitcases and a large duffel bag, waiting by the kitchen island where he's put the credit card Jonny gave him and the apartment keys; he watches Jonny come into the kitchen and stop, his eyebrows drawing together in a confused frown.

"What's going on?" he asks.

He doesn't get it yet, Patrick thinks.

"Jonny, we should break up," Patrick says quietly.

Patrick can actually see the effect his words have; Jonny visibly blanches and takes a step backwards. "What - what are you saying?" he stammers.

"I'm saying I want to break up," Patrick says. "Please don't say anything - my mind's made up."

"No - wait, no." Jonny says, coming over in a rush. Patrick squirms away when he tries to grab his hand, and Jonny's left grasping at air. "Pat - no, I don't understand - _why_?"

"There's - no why," Patrick says. "Listen to me. This is the best thing for me now, okay?"

"I don't understand," Jonny repeats, his lips white and bloodless. He looks _devastated_ , and Patrick's heart is screaming with the need to go right over to him, hold him, and wish for everything to go back to how it was before - but he knows there won't ever be a before, or an after. "We just came back from Paris - you never said anything - is this why you've been weird ever since we were there?"

Patrick swallows; time to cut the cord. "Yes," he says, lifting his chin. "I've wanted to break up for a while. I don't think we're going anywhere. It was a mistake going to Paris with you; I should have done it before then - "

"But _why_?" Jonny cries, loud enough that the veins on his neck start to pop. "I - my god, I don't - Patrick, please, I love you - "

"I don't," Patrick says. Short, cruel, cold. "I haven't for a long time. This is why I say it's best for us."

"I don't believe you," Jonny whispers; he looks positively haunted, his shattered heart visible in every line of his face.

"Believe what you will," Patrick says. "But - don't stop me. Please, for the love of god - if you do truly love me, even a little bit, or if you ever have - you have to let me go."

"I don't understand," Jonny says again, shaking his head. "I can't let you go - I _can't_ \- I love you."

"And if you do, you'll let me go. For my sake. For your own good."

"At least tell me why," Jonny argues.

"Because I don't love you anymore!" Patrick explodes. The impact of his words on Jonny is heartbreaking - Jonny actually staggers backwards, like Patrick's physically shoved a dagger into his chest. Maybe he has. "I told you already!"

"That's not true," Jonny whispers.

Patrick forces himself to turn away from Jonny, to walk calmly to his bags and pick them up, even though he's shaking from head to foot. "I have to go," he says. "Don't - don't come after me, okay? Don't call. Don't - do anything. Just let me go. That's all I want."

To Patrick's shock, Jonny laughs - a bitter, hard laugh, and when Patrick glances back at him, he's actually got tears in his eyes. Patrick's never seen Jonny cry, not once; it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do, to stop himself from rushing over and yelling in Jonny's face: _I do, I do love you._

"When have I ever not given you something you wanted?" Jonny asks through his laughter; and oh, fuck, his voice is all choked up, thick and blurry, and Patrick needs to _go_ before he can't do this.

His stomach hurts. He feels like he might throw up.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Thank you for everything. But I have to go."

He turns away before giving Jonny the chance to respond and exits the apartment for the last time, shutting the door behind him with a click - a loud, final sound.

He drags his bags down to the sidewalk as quickly as he can, thinking Jonny will appear behind him anytime; but he doesn't. He doesn't, and Patrick manages to flag down a cab, giving the driver Sharpy's address.

As the cab pulls away from the building, Patrick looks up one final time at the windows of their apartment on the sixth floor, and starts to cry. His hands are cold and trembling when he presses them to his face, roughly wiping the tears away; but they keep coming.

\---

**April 2018**

Jonny's pale white when Patrick finishes talking; it occurs to Patrick that the expression on his face is very much like how he'd looked back then when Patrick broke up with him, all white and disbelieving and devastated. Patrick downs the rest of his brandy; his throat aches from talking nonstop, and he pours himself another finger, pushing Jonny's untouched glass at him.

"Drink," he says, but Jonny makes no move to take the glass.

"Eléonore's married, you know," he says in a strangled, gritty voice.

Patrick blinks at the non-sequitur. "Sorry?"

"She got married, to a mutual friend of ours, like six years ago. They have a daughter. I'm her godfather."

"I - I'm not sure what you're trying to say," Patrick says. Even after all these years, his heart still twists when he thinks of Eléonore, her wealth and beauty and the easy confidence and closeness she had with Jonny.

"What I'm trying to say is - I wasn't going to marry her. I never was. We're good friends, but that's _all_ we've ever been - we grew up like brother and sister, and she's never been in love with me either."

Patrick shakes his head slowly. "But then - in Paris, I heard your parents say that you told them you were marrying her. That you got a ring - you were about to propose to her on that day - "

Jonny stares at him. "Patrick, how can you not realize it, even now? The person I told my parents I was going to marry wasn't her. It was _you_."

Patrick gasps out loud; that's the last thing he ever expected to hear. The words explode in his head, like tiny bursts of lightning. Patrick can't process this - he can't _understand_ \- Jonny was going to marry _him_?

"And you know that too," Jonny continues. "I told you the other night - there was only one person in my life who I wanted to marry, but he left me. And judging from the way you reacted when I said that - you knew it. You knew I meant you."

Patrick lifts his trembling hands to his face and scrubs them over his eyes and cheeks, trying to _think_. It's hard when all his emotions are a mess. "I don't - I can't explain it. Just - the way your parents spoke, it just sounded like that ring was for her, for someone from a good family, who wasn't poor, who had more ambition than being a baker."

Jonny exhales loudly. "Even before we went to Paris - months before - I'd already told them I was going to propose to you. I knew I wanted to marry you by the time we moved in together."

Patrick sucks in a deep, shocked breath. What the _hell_?

"That's why they wanted to meet you," Jonny says. "That's why I wanted you to come with me to Paris, to meet my family and all the people we knew - because I thought you were going to be my _husband_. And - I know you probably don't believe this - but they liked you, a lot. I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you now, we're not in our twenties anymore - but yeah, they did think you were maybe with me for my money at first, but once they met you, they liked you. They knew you were in love with me for real. And I got - "

He breaks off suddenly to laugh - a short, brittle sound that Patrick hates right away. "I did secretly have a ring made for you in Paris. I was so happy about it - I told my parents, and I did tell Eléonore - that's why we went out without you that morning, I showed her the ring I was going to give _you_ \- she's one of my best friends after all. I was going to propose when we were back home and at our graduation. But then you - you - "

He stops and puts his face in his hands; his shoulders shaking like he's holding back sobs.

And Patrick - Patrick feels like a complete and utter _fool_. The air in his office is icy cold against his skin, as if the temperature's suddenly dropped twenty degrees. He hadn't known Jonny was going to _propose_ \- had zero inkling and not the slightest suspicion - and now that Jonny's put it out in the open, it hits him all at once, what a huge and horrible mistake he's made.

He can't process it - he left Jonny, wasted their last eight years - for what? Because he misunderstood what Andree had said, and was too dumb and too insecure about himself to actually talk to Jonny about it?

"No," he whispers. "Jonny - no, please tell me you're lying."

Jonny looks up at him. His eyes are dark and glistening, his face so pinched and _destroyed_ that Patrick feels a physical pain in his chest, just looking at him. "I've never lied to you," Jonny says.

Patrick thinks he’s going to throw up. Or start hyperventilating until he passes out.

"Fuck,” he says numbly. "Jonny, I - I'm so sorry."

 _Sorry_ sounds so fucking hollow right now, he thinks. One little pathetic word that means nothing. Nothing that can salvage their lost love, all the pain and hurt and misery he's put them through, all these wasted years, all because of one wrong decision.

But Jonny's shaking his head slowly. "No," he says. "You were right. About some things."

"Like?"

"Like how I was selfish," Jonny says. "You know, after you left, I spent - god, I don't even know, months and months barely sleeping. I would lie awake, thinking about what I could have done to make you stay, what I _did_ do to make you leave. And the older I got, the more I saw - I was selfish. I always expected you to go along with my wants, to give in to me. Even with wanting to marry you - I just assumed you'd agree, because you always did. I did always try to paper over any problems we had with money. I thought that as long as I gave you everything you wanted materially you'd be happy. And I never once thought about how it'd make you feel, even when you were telling me exactly that."

"Stop," Patrick says. "It was me too - I should have talked to you more about it. Tried to make you see how I had been feeling for so long. I never really communicated with you. I didn't even tell you how your - wealth made me feel until, what, that last fight we had before Paris?"

"You tried," Jonny countered. "I never listened - I was too stubborn and too spoiled and wanted things my way all the time."

Patrick stares at him; their eyes lock, and for a moment the years fall away and all Patrick wants is to have Jonny hold him again. His feet move before his brain registers it; he gets out of his seat and walks jerkily to where Jonny's sitting like a statue, before he climbs into Jonny's lap, just like he used to do when they were at home watching TV and he wanted to be held.

He's broader and heavier now than he was at eighteen or twenty-two, but Jonny's arms go right around him without missing a beat, like his body's moving on the muscle memory of doing it, and then Patrick's enveloped in Jonny's warmth and strength. He burrows close, tucking his face into Jonny's neck, and takes deep, greedy, gulping breaths of his scent. Jonny smells different now - he uses cologne now, which he never used to, and Patrick can smell the starch and detergent in his shirt; but underneath it all is still Jonny, Jonny's smooth, hot skin pressed against his nose, Jonny's arms around him, and Patrick takes it all, savors it like he's been starved.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers into Jonny's neck. "I'm so, so sorry I hurt you. I'm so sorry I was insecure and took those insecurities out on you in the worst way possible. I know it's useless after all the pain - but I'm really, truly sorry."

Jonny's arms tighten. "No - I'm sorry I hurt you too. I'm sorry I was so self-centred. I wouldn't have lost you if I'd been better."

"I wish I could go back," Patrick says. "If I could do it all over again - I wouldn't do it at all. I hope you know that."

Jonny cups the back of his head in his hand, fingers winding through his curls; and this too, was something he used to do, something Patrick liked a lot, that sense of security that it gave him. "When you left, and you said you didn't love me anymore - you didn't mean that, right?" Jonny asks; and despite their closeness, his voice is so low that Patrick almost can't hear him.

"I didn't," Patrick says softly. "I've never - not loved you."

Jonny takes a deep, shuddering breath, his hand tightening almost convulsively on Patrick's head, and Patrick knows Jonny understands what he means - that he's still in love with Jonny.

"Me too," Jonny says.

Patrick laughs, a little watery. "We make a crazy pair, huh? Here we are - all this time wasted because of my stupidity - and you getting married soon. To someone else. I created my own self-fulfilling prophecy."

Jonny doesn't say anything for the longest time - he just sits quietly and strokes Patrick's hair and back until Patrick stops shaking. Then he sighs a little, and gently lifts Patrick to his feet, where he stands in front of Jonny, swaying slightly. "I'm sorry but - I have to go now."

He must see the crushing disappointment on Patrick's face, because he quickly cups Patrick's face in his hands. "Hey, hey - no, just for a while. I have some things I need to do first, okay? And then I'll come back."

Patrick's kind of - way too emotional, and maybe cried-out, so he doesn't really understand what Jonny's up to, but he just nods.

"I'll come back for you," Jonny repeats, and Patrick nods again.

\---

Patrick feels completely wrung-out, exhausted, and hollowed-out by the time he gets home; Jonny had basically sat in his office and held him for like an hour - and god knows what Ryan or anyone else would have thought of that, if they'd seen it - but no one had disturbed them until Jonny finally said he had to go. Ryan had insisted that Patrick go home after that, and Patrick had only agreed because his insides are basically a roiling mess and there's no way he's in any fit state to work today - but now that he's home alone, lying in bed and staring at his four empty walls, he feels simultaneously more heartened and yet worse than ever before.

Everything is - confusing, and his nose is all stuffed up and uncomfortable, but there's one thought that keeps lifting itself through his fog of upset and confusion. Jonny loves him. Jonny's still in love with him, and he'd wanted to propose to Patrick, and -

Patrick stuffs his face into his pillow and screams a few screams into it. God, he's been so fucking _stupid_. Eight years - how will he ever make the past eight years up to Jonny?

He tosses and turns until he finally falls into a fitful sleep; when his alarm wakes him the next morning, he feels as worn out as if he hadn't slept at all. But he drags himself into his bathroom to get ready, and finds himself shocked at his swollen, bloodshot eyes and blotchy face. He looks and feels like shit, and he _knows_ he can't afford to be shit today - there are a million things he needs to do, after that whole mess yesterday. He has to get his lawyer to review the contract with Elliot first and foremost, see if it can be voided without him needing to pay compensation; if he can get out of this without a lawsuit just by refunding their deposit, he'll consider himself lucky.

Elliot - Patrick has no idea what's going to happen there; he still loves Jonny, and now that he knows Jonny still loves him, he'll be fucked if he's going to let Jonny marry a shitheel like Elliot, but he's not a terrible enough person to break a couple up like that. He pauses in the midst of brushing his teeth, his heart sinking.

This is an utter fucking _mess_ , he thinks in despair.

\---

Somehow he manages to get himself looking somewhat presentable before he gets a Lyft to the bakery; he's staring dazedly out of the car windows when his phone rings. For a moment he thinks it's Jonny, and can't help but feel a prick of disappointment when he sees that it's Sharpy.

"Hi," he says when he answers, trying to keep his voice level.

"Hey, Pat," Sharpy says. "Listen - are you still doing that wedding cake? For Toews and his fiancé?"

Patrick hesitates. "Uh, about that - actually, no. Some stuff happened, and I've got to talk to my lawyers, and then I'll let you know later so you can, I don't know, work on the PR, okay?"

"Holy fuck," Sharpy says. "You - what did you do? _What did you do, Pat_?"

"I didn't _do_ anything," Patrick snaps. "What the hell is going on?"

"Jonny called off the engagement," Sharpy says bluntly. "His office sent a press release out first thing this morning, and it's been picked up by a number of columns and blogs."

"Wait - what," Patrick says, sitting bolt upright. "He did what?"

"Hold on," Sharpy says. "Here it is - _Jonathan Toews, CEO of the Toews-Gilbert International Group, and Elliot Philip Worthington III have mutually agreed to end their engagement. Both parties ask for privacy at this time._ That's it. But - fucking hell, Pat, did you and Jonny - "

"What - _no_ ," Patrick says, almost spitting. "What kind of fucked up asshole do you take me for? No, I didn't do anything with Jonny."

"It's just kind of weird, that's all," Sharpy says. "He reappears in your life after so many years, gets you to design his wedding cake - and then a few months after reconnecting with you, his engagement's off?"

"You were the one who goaded me into doing it!" Patrick says. "And - look, it's complicated, okay, and I'm reaching the bakery soon so I have to hang up - but I promise you, I didn't do anything. And I'll call you later when the madness dies down and tell you everything."

"You better," Sharpy says. "I need to know how much PR spin I have to put out, depending on how huge a mess you and Jonny have made."

"God - whatever, bye," Patrick says, and hangs up just as the Lyft pulls up outside his bakery. Fucking Sharpy.

He gets out of the car, shoving his phone into his back pocket; but when he looks up, Jonny's there. Standing right there in front of the bakery, looking at him with a small, hopeful smile.

"Jonny?" Patrick says. "I just heard - what are you doing here - what did you do?"

Jonny comes towards him, steady and sure, until he's close enough that his chest nudges gently against Patrick's; Patrick stands frozen, looking up at Jonny, at the bright, earnest hope in his face.

"I told you I'd come back for you," Jonny says. "Here I am."

Patrick reaches up and grips his arms. He's solid and strong under Patrick's hands - and yeah, Jonny's right here like he promised he'd be. God. It's - a lot for Patrick to absorb.

"Can we talk?" Jonny asks. "I think there's - yeah, there's a lot you need to know."

"Yeah, of course," Patrick says distractedly. He looks around, at the line inside the bakery and his staff's curious faces behind the counter, looking out at them. "Maybe not here though - we could go to the coffee shop down the street."

"Yeah, okay," Jonny says.

\---

"You broke off your engagement," Patrick says, the moment they find a corner table and sit down with their coffee.

Jonny nods.

"Jonny, I don't know - why?" Patrick says helplessly. "I didn't expect you to do this - "

"Listen - just listen to me, okay? Hear me out."

Patrick studies Jonny's face; for some reason, Jonny looks like he's got a weight lifted off him, as if he's younger and lighter, all of a sudden. He doesn't look like a man who's just broken off an engagement with someone he's supposed to love.

"After you left me - I mean, it was the worst time of my life. I don't think I need to tell you about that. You know, right?"

Patrick nods slowly. He knows exactly how it would have felt for Jonny. "Yeah. Me too," he says softly.

"I tried so hard to forget you," Jonny says. "You asked me not to look for you - you said if I truly loved you I'd let you go - and I tried so hard to respect that. I can't tell you how many nights I spent wide awake, staring at my phone, every muscle in my body screaming to call you. I actually did, once. Maybe four months after you left, when I just couldn't stand the pain anymore. And by then, you'd changed your number."

Patrick feels like he wants to cry again; he lowers his head and takes a sip of his coffee, biting his lip, holding it back.

"So you know, I guess after that I just - went into despair. I started doing anything and everything I could. To numb the pain. I drank, I partied, I was into a lot of coke at one point. I fucked around a lot, anyone that even breathed in my direction - anything to just take the pain away and forget."

Patrick sucks in a deep breath. He supposes his emotions aren't done killing him yet, after last night.

He gets it, though. He didn't go off the rails the way Jonny did, but he threw himself into culinary school and then into his work, to the exclusion of everything else. It's why he pushes himself so hard and why he's never satisfied with his success - after Jonny, he couldn't see himself with anyone else the same way. Couldn't risk putting his feelings out there and letting his heart be broken again. And Sugar Kane Bakery - it's the pinnacle of all his hard work, and there's always been something deep inside him that knew his bakery couldn't hurt him the way a person could.

But he was wrong. The bakery can't replace human emotion or take the place of Jonny, and never could have filled the hole in his heart that Jonny left. He's just been - so, so wrong. About everything.

Jonny sees his reaction and takes one of his hands, winding his fingers between Patrick's. His hand is big and warm, like they've always been, and he squeezes Patrick's hand gently. "Look, I'm telling you all this because I want you to know I - wasn't celibate. I mean, I definitely didn't live like a monk, you know? I was fucking around a lot for years. Dating a lot of different people. Trying to find another you. But none of them were ever you. And I never loved any of them, never felt like I could."

Patrick holds on tight to Jonny's hand, tries to let that reassuring hold ground him so he won't just burst into tears, or punch himself in the face, or something.

"The point is - my parents got tired of it. They never left me alone about finding someone proper and settling down." Jonny actually makes air quotes with his free hand when he says the word 'proper', and it makes Patrick smile a little - he remembers Jonny doing that too, in the past. "The press never left me alone about my relationship status, about who I was taking home, who I was coming out of nightclubs with. And by then I was already CEO. My parents told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn't grow up quick, they'd have to demote me, put my dad back - and that would have looked so bad in the public eye for the company, and they really didn't have anyone capable to take the reins, since David wasn't interested."

Jonny sighs. "And the press were brutal - the business was still doing well since I'd taken over, but I could see the the gossip and shit beginning to influence investors and shareholders, affect our stock value. And I could see the group my parents worked so hard to merge and build, kind of falling apart because of my - lifestyle. So I thought, okay, maybe I should just - settle down."

"And - Elliot was there?" Patrick asks quietly.

"Elliot was there," Jonny says, nodding. "He was one of several people I was seeing at the same time. But he made the most, I guess, sense to me, because I knew he didn't love me or care about me either. He liked being seen with me. He liked that the Toews name opened doors for him all over North America. And his family is wealthy, but - not like mine, of course. And all he really wanted was to ride on my name."

Jonny turns Patrick's hand over as he speaks, studying his palm, tracing the lines on it slowly. It's bumpy and callused and scarred from oven burns and knifework, but Jonny rubs tenderly over each imperfection like they're precious, like he treasures and reveres every scar on Patrick. "So - I asked him if he wanted to get married. I made it very clear it wasn't a love match, and he was in complete accord with that; but we got along pretty well, and he could be fun to hang around with when he wasn't being an absolute brat. And he was more than happy to agree - he wanted to be Mr. Toews, he wanted that unlimited wealth and power behind me, but he didn't want _me_."

Jonny looks up at him. "Not like you did."

"How did he take it when you told him you - wanted to end it?" Patrick asks, dreading the answer.

Jonny laughs - actually _laughs_. "Well, he hurled a few choice words at me, and then informed me that he'd been fucking other guys behind my back anyway - which I already knew but didn't care - since I was, to quote him, 'boring as hell and so fucking basic'. Honestly, he was more furious about missing out on the social status of being my husband, than anything else. But he did agree he never wanted to marry me either, apart from the cachet of my name, so you know, no loss there."

"Jonny," Patrick whispers. "I'm so, so sorry I hurt you so much - that you had to do all of this."

"No, don't - it's nothing to do with you," Jonny says, putting a finger on his lips, and all Patrick wants to do is kiss it, kiss Jonny all over, make up for all the lost time. "I guess I just felt it was okay to be with someone who felt as much for me as I felt for him - that is, not much at all. Marriage can sometimes be a business transaction in a world like mine, you know that - and to me it didn't matter, because the love of my life was gone, and he was never going to come back."

Jonny lifts his finger from Patrick's lips; Patrick resists the urge to chase it with his mouth, before Jonny gently strokes it down his cheek.

"But then Elliot said - he wanted you to design the cake, and I thought - I thought that if I'd really lost you, if I had to spend the rest of my life with someone else anyway, I'd at least be able to see you and speak to you again. Maybe even - be friends. And - "

He laughs, sharp and harsh. "See, this was another way in which I never considered your feelings. Never thought what it'd do to you to see me again, and engaged to someone else - I only thought of what I wanted. And I just couldn't resist the chance to be close to you again, so much, even if it would upset you."

"Jonny - it's okay," Patrick says. "I admit, I was angry about it at first - but then I thought that I needed to get over it too. Get over you. And be friends."

Jonny smiles at him, a small wan smile. "Guess we can't be friends, huh?"

"No," Patrick whispers. "We can't, because we'll always be in love with each other."

The way Jonny's face lights up makes Patrick's heart jump in his chest; and he squeezes Jonny's hand a little tighter.

"When you left," Jonny says, "I had everything anyone could ask for. All this money, inheriting a global conglomerate, the world at my feet - and all of that didn't mean a thing without you."

"Maybe it was kind of a good thing," Patrick says quietly. "We wouldn't really have worked out either even if we'd stayed together and got married. We never wanted to talk about all the issues we had. And I was so stupid, and so insecure about myself."

"But not anymore," Jonny says. "You're a success in your own right now. And I'm so proud of you. You didn't have everything handed to you like I did, but you made your own name."

Patrick looks at Jonny, at the face he loves and remembers so well, warmth blooming in his chest. It hits him all of a sudden that there's nothing standing between them anymore. No more cover-ups and avoidance, no more engagement, both of them laid bare and vulnerable now; and they're both older and wiser now, enough to see and admit the mistakes of their past, but still so desperately in love.

"I love you," he says. "So much."

"I love you too," Jonny says without hesitation. "I always will."

And Patrick knows that part's never going to change for them both.

He finds himself saying, "Jonny?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me home."

\---

Jonny's home in Chicago is the penthouse suite of the Palais de Lune which takes up the entire top floor of the hotel, accessible only by Jonny's own private elevator in the back of the building. Patrick stands in the tiny elevator pressed close to Jonny as it whizzes up, thinking about the last time he'd been here, when he'd walked into the hotel bar with no idea that he was going to come face to face with the only man he'd ever loved, whose heart he'd broken while breaking his own in the process.

Life is - so weird, he thinks as the elevator dings to a stop and opens directly into the foyer of the suite. He feels Jonny take his hand and tug him gently out of it; he follows in a daze. He's still thinking about how strange and surreal it all is - how he and Jonny took all this time to find each other again, and just four short months ago he'd never have dreamed he'd be here, holding hands with Jonny, standing in his home.

"Hey," Jonny says, tipping his chin up with a finger until they lock eyes. He's smiling, and Patrick feels warm all over at the look on his face. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here," Patrick says, and tiptoes to kiss Jonny at the same moment Jonny twines his arms around him.

Kissing Jonny is like - like he's been underwater for years and fighting for oxygen and he's now broken the surface to take big, deep, satisfying gulps of air. Just something as simple as Jonny pressing his lips against his, licking along the seam of his lips until he lets his mouth fall open in a gasp, makes little sparks explode in Patrick's belly, dance along the nerves under his skin. He winds his fingers into the short hair at the back of Jonny's head, pulling him as close as he can. Jonny's crotch pushes up against his lower belly, and Patrick can feel his cock, getting harder as they kiss.

"Bedroom," he murmurs into Jonny's mouth.

Somehow they make it to Jonny's bedroom without ever disengaging from each other; he kisses Jonny hungrily the whole way, feeling like a starving man, his hands fumbling at Jonny's shirt, his belt, everywhere he can reach. But when Jonny gently pushes him towards the bed until his knees bump against it, a thought suddenly occurs to Patrick and he pulls away from Jonny.

Jonny's bedroom is large and masculine with lots of grey and black; the king-sized bed has a black leather headboard and starched blue-grey sheets. Patrick stares at it for a moment before Jonny says, "What's wrong?"

"Did you ever - with Elliot? In this bed?" Patrick asks, still staring at it. The sheets are smooth and pristine, but he can't help imagining Elliot in here and absolutely fucking _hating_ the thought.

Jonny hesitates. "I mean - well, we were dating for a few months before we got engaged, so yeah. Yeah."

Patrick turns and walks out of the room, ignoring Jonny's "Patrick?" as he goes. He looks around, taking stock of his surroundings, and opens the first door he sees, just next to the bedroom door. That room's obviously Jonny's office, to his disappointment; there's a huge desk and a tall leather chair, a flatscreen TV, phones and computers and papers all over. He shuts the door and walks on to the next one he sees.

This time, he's in luck; he opens it to what looks like a guest room, much smaller than Jonny's master bedroom, but it has an equally generous king bed and an ensuite. That's all they need, he thinks.

Jonny comes in after him. "Patrick?" he says uncertainly.

Patrick turns to face him, smiling up at him. "Fuck me in here," he says, reaching out; Jonny steps into the circle of his arms without hesitation and bends to kiss him again, hard enough for Patrick to feel his cheeks hollow as Jonny licks into his mouth, sucks on his lower lip, his hands roaming downwards until they come to rest on Patrick's ass.

"You scared me, walking out like that," he says when he pulls away for breath. "I thought - you didn't want - "

"If you didn't have a guest room, I'd have made you fuck me on the sofa. Or on the floor. Or the kitchen counter, I don't even care," Patrick says. "There is no way that I do not want."

Jonny laughs and nuzzles into the space under his ear; he licks down Patrick's neck, making him shiver, and then bites lightly on his shoulder. "I'll change that bed," he promises. "Fucking burn it to ash if that's what you want."

"Just change it," Patrick says, laughing back. God - he feels happier and lighter than he's been in _years_. He's back with Jonny now, and there's nothing and no one that can stop that. "Get your clothes off - jesus, what kind of fucking belt is this - "

"Hermès," Jonny says, grinning like a dork as he pushes Patrick's hands aside to unbuckle it himself.

"Hermès needs to make a belt that's quick to get off for when I want your dick in me then," Patrick says. Jonny groans, but he definitely speeds up his undressing, and Patrick pulls his own clothes off, shaking with need and excitement and adrenaline.

When Jonny's naked, Patrick takes a few slow seconds just to look at him from head to foot. Jonny always used to look after himself - he ate well and worked out regularly, and he clearly still takes care of himself despite the rigours of his work. He's bigger now than he used to be, his neck and shoulders thicker, his biceps and forearms and abs more defined, and he's got these deep v-cuts that Patrick just wants to get his mouth all over. A trail of dark hair leads from his navel down into his neatly trimmed hair, and his cock looks - _magnificent_ ; full and fat and uncut, big enough for Patrick's mouth to water just looking at it. Patrick's cock is a good size, nothing to scoff at, but Jonny's wide in a way he can never match; he remembers how Jonny is thick enough that his fingers barely met around it, and his skin pebbles in little goosebumps as he thinks about how good it used to feel to have Jonny sink into him and stretch him wide open.

He's suddenly desperate to get his mouth on it, so he drops to his knees and fits his mouth around Jonny's fat cockhead while he grips Jonny's thighs to hold himself steady, using his lips to slide the foreskin down. It's heavy on his tongue, the taste of precome familiar and tangy, and above him Jonny groans again, threading his fingers into Patrick's curls and holding tight.

God, Patrick fucking _loves_ this. He's missed this, being on his knees for Jonny, sliding his mouth down on his cock until it's at the back of his throat with nowhere to go but deeper, and he's only got half of it in his mouth. He doesn't take it into his throat though; he sucks first, rolling his tongue along the underside of it, feeling Jonny's quads tense under his fingers.

"Oh, fuck," Jonny sighs. "Fuck, I missed this so much, your gorgeous mouth, _Patrick_ \- "

Patrick blinks up at him, holding Jonny's cock in his mouth, and Jonny swears again and presses his thumb into his lower lip, right next to where his cock is resting.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," Jonny's saying, his cheekbones and neck flushed with red, "look at you, you look so good."

Patrick's cheeks burn at the praise, but his cock twitches against his thigh, and he reaches between his legs to jack himself slowly, just to take some of the pressure off. He sucks harder, cheeks hollowing around Jonny's cock, and Jonny gasps, dragging his thumb from his mouth up over his cheek; it's slippery from his own spit.

"Fuck, I can feel it," Jonny says, pressing gently into his cheek. "I can feel my cock in your mouth - oh shit, that's good - "

He still remembers how Jonny liked his dick sucked - he liked it slow and wet and Patrick mouthing a lot at the head, so he drags his mouth and tongue back up and concentrates on licking at Jonny's cockhead, gripping his own cock tighter when Jonny spurts a little burst of precome on his tongue.

Clearly Jonny still likes it that way, if how his quads are bunching under Patrick's hands are any indication. Patrick can see Jonny's abs clenching and tightening too every time he applies some suction, and jesus, but Jonny's still the hottest man he's ever laid eyes on, even after so many years and other men. He wants to spend the rest of his life right here, kneeling in front of Jonny and sucking at his cock until his lips are swollen and bruised; but his cock's leaking onto his fingers and when he slides his hand back a little further over his balls and hole, it makes him quiver with how sensitive he feels, his hole clenching greedily at his fingertips.

"Okay," he says, pulling back with one last lingering suck, "I'm sorry, but I just - need you to fuck me now."

Jonny's staring dazedly at him; he runs his fingers distractedly over Patrick's lips and Patrick sucks them into his mouth, letting his tongue slide between them so Jonny can see it.

"Fuck - your mouth," Jonny says, his voice gratifyingly rough.

"Jonny," Patrick says. " _Fuck me._ "

"Yeah. Shit. Yes," Jonny says, blinking. He lifts Patrick to his feet and kisses him, licking the taste of himself off his lips. "Wait for me. I need to get all the stuff." Then he's going off at a near run, almost tripping in his eagerness.

Patrick wants to laugh, but instead he just climbs onto the bed, pulling his knees up with his feet flat to the mattress. His cock bobs between his thighs, wet and sticky and hard. He slicks his fingers up as well as he can with his precome and presses them to his hole; he really should wait for Jonny to come back with lube but he needs -

Jonny returns at that moment and stops short in the doorway, eyes widening. "Jesus," he says, sounding strangled. "You're going to fucking kill me."

"Get over here," Patrick says urgently.

Jonny covers the distance to the bed in two long strides; he dumps a bottle of lube and a box of condoms next to Patrick. The sight of the condoms gives Patrick pause; they'd never used condoms with each other, ever, when they were together. It makes sense now, of course, after everything, but it still makes him feel kind of - weird, to have to be using condoms with Jonny like they're strangers, when they're anything but.

"Stop thinking," Jonny says, gentle, like he can read Patrick's mind. "Just - look at me." He picks up the lube and squeezes a generous amount into his hand, getting his fingers good and wet, and it works; Patrick has a hard time thinking of anything after that except how it'll feel to get those fingers in him again.

"Get me wet too," he says, and Jonny swears as he fumbles the bottle; but he manages to squeeze some over the fingers Patrick's resting against the rim of his hole. The lube slides down between his cheeks and over his hole, and yeah, Patrick likes it wet, always has, and Jonny seems to remember that too. He pushes a finger inside himself, too eager to wait, and Jonny makes a noise low in his throat as he watches.

"You're just - so fucking gorgeous," Jonny says, leaning over to kiss him again, like he can't get enough of Patrick's mouth. Patrick feels the press of one of Jonny's fingers on his hole as he does it - the sneaky fucker - but then he eases it in alongside Patrick's inside him, and Patrick gasps, lifting his hips unconsciously, letting both their fingers sink in deeper.

It's been a while for him, so it aches a little, but it's a good ache, and Jonny waits till he's adjusted to it as he lays a line of soft sucking kisses along Patrick's jaw and over the column of his throat and the bump of his Adam's apple. By the time he works another finger in, Patrick's wordlessly asking for more, rocking his hips on their hands. And yeah - that's what he wants, to be stretched out and filled up, his finger trapped between both of Jonny's as Jonny begins working his hole open slowly, thumb sliding over his sensitive, lubed-up rim. He angles his fingers up and that's it - his fingertips rub over Patrick's prostate, sure and perfect, none of that fumbling and failing to find it or whatever, and a sharp frisson of pure pleasure zings up Patrick's spine.

"Oh fuck," he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut as Jonny kisses his way down his chest and drags his tongue over one taut nipple. "Oh my _god_ \- yeah, just like that - "

Jonny strokes over his prostate and Patrick feels his entire body ripple in response, his hips undulating into Jonny's strong, thick fingers. "You feel so good," Jonny murmurs, pressing a kiss over his nipple. "Can't wait to be inside you."

"Get inside me then," Patrick gasps. He arches his back off the bed and Jonny gets his free hand under him to cup his ass, squeezing gently; Jonny's hands are enormous and Patrick really, really likes that. "Come on already."

"Yeah, you're still as impatient as before," Jonny says, grinning down at him.

"Eight fucking years, Jonny," Patrick says, clenching down around Jonny's fingers. "I fucking _dreamed_ about your cock for years. Want it _now_."

"Jesus," Jonny says, looking stunned. "Okay, yeah, I got you - "

He works his fingers out carefully; Patrick lets his slide out too, and grasps his cock with his slippery hand. He watches as Jonny rolls a condom on over his cock and spreads more lube on it; then he knees his way between Patrick's legs, gently pushing his knees apart until his legs are splayed open.

"You want it like this?" Jonny asks, looking down at him.

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I want to look at you and see your face."

Jonny quirks a sweet smile at him. "Me too," he says, and then Patrick feels him fitting his cock at his hole, his thick, blunt cockhead resting against it, before he pushes in, smooth and easy, like he's meant to be in there.

Even with all the prep, there's nothing quite like this: the breath-stealing, incomparable feeling of being fucked open on Jonny's fat cock, everything in him stretching to accommodate it. Patrick's never been with anyone as big as Jonny, and that first push is always a little too much, too overwhelming, too close to that edge of feeling like he's been stretched just that bit too wide for Patrick's body to take. But god, he's wanted this so much, being filled full to the brim with Jonny's dick, and Patrick whimpers, screwing his eyes shut. It's still so fucking _good_ , and he only realizes he's babbling out loud when Jonny says hoarsely, "Yeah, me too", and fucks in another inch deeper.

When he's all the way in, his thighs snug against Patrick's ass with his cock sunk impossibly deep, every nerve in Patrick's body is lit up with fiery hot pleasure. He lifts his head blearily to look down at them both, his cock swollen and red and dripping a steady stream of precome onto his belly, Jonny's abs flexing as he pushes in just that tiny bit more, like he wants to be as close to Patrick as possible.

"I missed this so fucking much," Jonny says, his eyes fixed on where they're joined, before he looks up at Patrick. His eyes are so dark they're almost jet-black, and the deep red flush staining his face and neck has travelled down his chest. "There's no one else for me. No one."

Patrick's not ashamed of the way his cock literally jerks untouched at Jonny's words. "Good," he says breathlessly. He reaches down behind his ass and slips his fingers into the cleft of his ass, wanting to feel where Jonny's inside him and stretching him so good, and fuck, _fuck_ , Jonny's so deep in him that he can't even work his fingers between their bodies.

Jonny shifts his hands to the back of Patrick's knees, pushing his legs open wider, and it shifts his cock the tiniest bit deeper. Patrick gasps, grabbing his dick; it's hot and throbbing in his hand, tacky with precome.

"Fuck me now," he begs, and Jonny obliges; he pulls back smoothly and then screws back in with a quick snap of his hips, his thick cock dragging over Patrick's prostate with each push-pull and lighting him up from the inside.

Jesus, it's like they've never been apart. It feels the same, Jonny's cock shoved in so deep, filling him up until he almost can't breathe, perfect friction against the most sensitive parts of him until he can feel tears springing to his eyes; but at the same time it's different. Jonny's broader than he was at twenty-two, and when he leans over Patrick to kiss him, the weight of his body pushes Patrick's knees further back, leaving him spread wide and vulnerable and completely at Jonny's mercy. And he fucks harder now than he used to, more controlled, more precise - but it fucking _works_ for Patrick. He's whimpering out loud into Jonny's mouth as Jonny screws relentlessly into him, his fingers digging into the thick muscle of Jonny's shoulders where he's clinging on for dear life.

"God, you feel so good, you know that?" Jonny says, biting gently on his lower lip before he pulls away to look down at Patrick. He's breathing hard, rocking his hips into Patrick in a blindingly perfect rhythm, and all Patrick can think is that he hasn't wanted to come this fast since he was a teenager and Jonny used to eat him out in the backseat of his Mercedes with Patrick's legs propped up in a V against the front seats and then fuck him quick and devastating, because they couldn't wait until they got home.

"Do you - remember?" he asks Jonny somewhat inanely. "When you - ah, god, Jonny, _yes_ \- "

"Hmm?"

"When you used to fuck me in the - oh, fuck - the back of your car," Patrick says, panting. He circles his fingers around his cock; god, he's so wet, he's going to come so soon.

Jonny's grin is blinding. "Oh yeah," he says, fucking in and out, smooth as satin, each pump of his hips pushing Patrick ever closer to the edge. "We can do that again if you want. As many times as you want. I'll put you in there and fuck you until you're _satisfied_ , and then I'll lick my come out of you, and we can go again."

"Oh _fuck_ ," Patrick sobs. "Yeah, yeah, I want to do _everything_ with you again - just like that, Jonny, right there - "

Jonny slams into him like he wants, his hands gripping tight on the backs of Patrick's thighs even though they're slick with sweat now, so Patrick's helpless to do anything but take Jonny's perfect cock, unable to squirm away or slip out of Jonny's grip - like he even wants to anyway.

"I'm close, Jonny," he gasps, and Jonny reaches between their bodies and wraps his hand around Patrick's fist on his cock, slotting their fingers together, even though Patrick's not really jerking it, just letting the rhythm of Jonny's thrusts slide his cock through the loose circle of their fists.

"Yeah, come for me," Jonny says, sucking a kiss into the side of his neck; Patrick knows he's going to leave a mark, but he doesn't _care_ right now about anything except the mind-numbing pleasure of being spitted on Jonny's thick cock. "Come now, baby - "

And Patrick _does_ , right on cue; his toes curl as his cock swells in their joined grip, and then the world spins and tilts away behind his eyelids as he comes harder than he has in years, every muscle in his body taut and rippling, his hole clenching down hard on Jonny's cock as he shouts and arches his back and shoots all over himself, come dribbling down their hands.

"Oh fuck, that's good," Jonny says above him, his voice rough. "So gorgeous, baby, you're fucking perfect - "

Patrick's still shuddering from the aftershocks; his nipples are so tight they almost hurt and his nerve endings are fizzing and popping everywhere, oversensitive as hell, especially around his rim where he's split open wide on Jonny's dick, but - "Come on me," he manages to say, looking giddily down at the come streaked over his belly and chest. "Come on me, Jonny - do it - "

Jonny groans and fucks in twice, three times; then he's pulling out of Patrick so fast that Patrick feels suddenly, gapingly empty for a second, before he rips the condom off in one swift movement and starts stripping his cock with his fist in quick, jerky motions. Patrick watches as Jonny's cock goes impossibly red in his hand, and then Jonny's coming too, his abs and thighs tightening and face screwing up, and Patrick sees and feels the hot splash of Jonny's come on his stomach, mingling with his own.

"God," Jonny's gasping, staring down at him, "fuck - _fuck_ , Patrick - "

He wrings the last few drops of come out with several more pulls of his fist, and then he rubs the head of his still-hard cock over the come puddling in the grooves of Patrick's belly, dripping down his hips and pelvis, smearing it over his skin. When he rubs his come-wet cock over Patrick's softening, sensitive dick, it makes Patrick gasp. It's filthy, _he's_ filthy and absolutely dripping with come, but he loves it.

"Jesus," Jonny says, flopping down heavily next to him. "Come here." He pulls Patrick into his arms like he can't bear to not be touching him, fitting their lips together, both of them panting hard into each other's mouths and not so much kissing as just wanting to feel each other, top to toe, as sticky and wet as everything is.

"So good," Patrick says, breathing heavily. "Jonny - that was so good." He starts laughing, feeling slightly loopy. So light and wonderfully, deliriously happy, like all the hurt of the past years have magically evaporated now that he's got Jonny with him again, his hole still aching from the wide stretch of being fucked.

"Yeah?" Jonny says; he sounds smug as hell, the asshole, but also as happy as Patrick feels.

"Yeah," Patrick says, pushing at Jonny's shoulders until he rolls onto his back; he rolls along with Jonny until he's lying on top of him, still lazily mouthing at his lips. There's come all over them both and it's already sticky between their bellies, but he doesn't give a damn. "God, I missed this. I missed you so much it hurt."

"I know," Jonny says, stroking his hair, fingers catching on the mussed, tangled curls. "I did too. Every single day."

"But we're together now."

"We're together now," Jonny repeats, and Patrick feels a smile break out on his face as Jonny rubs his thumb over his dimple. He's so _happy_ ; it makes him feel like he wants to start laughing again, so he does, and Jonny presses their foreheads close together, grinning at him.

"Oh yeah," Patrick says. "Before I forget - "

He wriggles down Jonny's body, taking the chance to drag his tongue through the come on Jonny's stomach as he does so, just because he wants to lick Jonny's abs. Jonny groans and throws an arm over his face. "Patrick, give me some warning before you do things like that. I'm an old man now."

"I'm your age," Patrick says. "And you don't fuck like an old man." He grins to himself when he sees Jonny smile at that, his mouth visible beneath the arm on his face.

He wriggles further down until he's between Jonny's legs, face to face with his cock. It's still half-hard, and it's still the best cock Patrick's ever seen. "Hi, you," he says, starting to giggle again. "I missed you too."

Jonny lifts his arm and looks down at Patrick disbelievingly. "Are you - are you actually talking to my dick?"

"Oh yeah," Patrick says, full-on giggling now. "Missed this guy, you know." He makes sure to keep eye contact with Jonny when he kisses the head of Jonny's dick; it's salty and rubbery with the taste of come and the lube from the condom, but he wraps his lips around it anyway, sucking gently and licking every drop off, looking at Jonny the whole time.

"Fuck," Jonny breathes, drawing the word out. "I just - I can't with you."

"Just lie there," Patrick says. "Let me suck you to my heart's content, damn it."

"I've got a better idea," Jonny says. He grabs one of the pillows and pops it under his head, and then motions at Patrick. "Come on up here."

"I want to suck your dick," Patrick says, frowning.

"Yeah, but get your _ass_ up here," Jonny says, grinning at him as he taps his forefinger against his mouth.

Patrick scrambles to move quicker than he's ever moved for anything in his life.

It takes some shifting around, but Jonny gets them positioned comfortably top to tail, Patrick going back to mouth at Jonny's cock again while Jonny spreads his sticky cheeks open. "Mmm," Jonny says, sounding pleased as hell. "So fucking pretty."

Ordinarily Patrick would be embarrassed, but it's _Jonny_. There's nothing to feel ashamed or embarrassed about between him and Jonny. So he just wriggles his ass a little against the hold Jonny has on his cheeks, teasing and inviting at the same time, and makes sure to suck a little harder on Jonny's cock, which twitches interestedly in his mouth even though it's not fully hard.

"Jesus," Jonny says, and slides two fingers into Patrick without preamble; Patrick's so stretched and loose that they go in easy and smooth, almost no resistance at all. But his rim is sensitive and sore, and it still makes him tremble and shake at the touch of Jonny's fingers, and then the touch of Jonny's tongue to it, licking lazily up and down between his knuckles.

"You know when you said you dreamed about my cock?" Jonny says, lips moving tender against his sensitive hole.

"Mm-hmm," Patrick says. He has, too many times to recall, amidst all those times he dreamed about Jonny.

"I dreamed about this too," Jonny says. "Holding your sweet little hole open like this, licking you out until you were sobbing my name. And now I get to do it again."

Patrick moans at the thought, pushing backwards insistently into Jonny's mouth, and Jonny gives him what he wants, his tongue licking firmly over his hole and into it. Patrick loves being rimmed, and Jonny's fucking A-plus at it, has zero fear of getting right up in his ass. His entire body shudders when Jonny licks delicately around his oversensitized rim before fucking his tongue into him; it takes a good half-minute of him rocking back and forth slowly on Jonny's face, his breathing getting increasingly ragged, before he remembers he's still got Jonny's cock in his mouth.

He loves this too, when Jonny's just soft enough that he can get the whole of his cock in his mouth; he suckles gently at it, well aware that they're both no longer that young and there's no way either of them can get it up so fast. So there's no rush in it when he sucks and licks around it, loving the way it begins to thicken up again in his mouth, slowly but surely. It's good when it's like this, when there's no rush for either of them to fuck like it had been earlier, and he has time to enjoy the way Jonny's body feels against his and get reacquainted with all the ways he reacts to Patrick.

Patrick loses track of time after a while, sinking into the pleasure of Jonny licking and fingering his hole while he sucks Jonny's cock, occasionally trembling and whimpering when Jonny's fingers stroke against his prostate. He's still so sensitive, but that tiny edge of pain makes everything brighter and sharper, including the little shocky waves of pleasure that rock through him.

By the time Jonny's back to full hardness, Patrick's got him fully in his mouth, Jonny's cock slipping into his throat like silk. He swallows and hears Jonny's bitten-off gasp behind him as his throat muscles contract around it, so he does it again and again, pushing impatiently back into Jonny's fingers until Jonny gets the message and gets his mouth back on him, licking over the seam of his balls and up over his taint, back over his hole.

He wants - he wants to come like this on Jonny's tongue with Jonny's cock in his mouth, and feel Jonny come down his throat; but he's also prickling all over with the growing need to have Jonny's cock fill him up again. And then it occurs to him that they have all the time in the world now, and he can do _anything_ he wants with Jonny, at any time.

So he makes an executive decision and drags his mouth off Jonny's cock; Jonny's hips rise into the air as if he's chasing his mouth, but he wipes the spit off his chin with the back of his hand and says, "I want to ride you now."

Damn, his voice is totally fucked up from keeping Jonny's cock in his throat, all gravelly and hoarse, but judging by the way Jonny groans into his ass, he definitely likes it.

"Okay, fuck," Jonny says. "Here - "

Patrick ends up straddling Jonny, legs splayed over Jonny's enormous thighs as Jonny sits up with his back against the headboard to roll another condom on and spread more lube on himself. He reaches back to take Jonny's cock in his hand and fit it at his hole; it's slippery with the lube and Jonny ends up sliding his cock between his cheeks instead, frotting over his hole, but when Patrick sees how Jonny's face gets all flushed with pleasure at that, the way his hips hitch up to fuck his cock into the cleft of his ass, he thinks it's something they ought to do again too. And then he feels warm when he remembers once more that hey, they can do everything they want to now.

Finally Jonny's cock slips into his hole; it's still enough of a stretch for Patrick to have to sink down on it slowly, his thighs trembling as he goes. He squeezes his eyes shut when he's fully seated on Jonny, working his hips slowly around it to adjust and try to get the best angle. God, Jonny's _big_ , there's just no way to move without Patrick feeling like he's stuffed right up to his belly, even in tiny incremental rolls of his hips like this.

Jonny just looks smug when Patrick tells him he can't move. "Too full?" he asks, as if he doesn't _know_. He grasps Patrick's cheeks in his hands, squeezing gently before he spreads Patrick open, letting gravity push a little more cock into him.

"As if you don't know," Patrick says, gasping. Jonny just laughs.

"Oh, I remember," he says, smirking. "You used to like feeling this way though. Like you're so full with me you can't even breathe."

"Still love it," Patrick says, and begins to move, rocking his hips in a slow grind down against Jonny's thighs and balls, the slippery drag of Jonny's cock against his rim nearly too much of an ache for Patrick to take, but much too good for him to stop. He moans when he leans back a little and Jonny's cock immediately pushes against his prostate, sending sparks flying through his stomach and a little burst of precome pearling at the tip of his cock.

"That's it," Jonny says encouragingly, "do that, make yourself feel good on my cock." His hands are still on Patrick's ass, keeping him spread open so he can take as much of Jonny into him as he wants, and Patrick wants _all_ of him.

He leans back, bracing himself on Jonny's thighs, fucking himself down harder on Jonny's cock as he adjusts. It's so good, the feeling of being fucked open like this with nowhere to go but take more, and with every movement he makes, Jonny's thick cock rubs right up against his prostate, making his head spin. He shuts his eyes and sinks into it, and he's only aware that he's making noises when Jonny groans.

"I love hearing you like this," Jonny says, his breathing ragged. "Hearing and seeing you get yourself off on my cock - god, you're so gorgeous."

"Jonny," Patrick gasps; he's getting sweaty, his curls sticking damply to his neck as he works himself up and down on Jonny. His cock is full and red again, leaking onto Jonny's stomach, smearing shiny across his skin and the patches of come from earlier. But he needs - more, and as if Jonny can read his mind, he plants his feet on the mattress and lifts his hips to meet Patrick's next downward push, and - fuck, that's exactly what Patrick needs, Jonny screwing deep into him, his abs tensing with it.

"Like this?" Jonny asks, muscles straining as he fucks up into Patrick.

" _Yes,_ " Patrick says, "fuck, just like this, keep fucking me - "

Jonny puts a hand on his lower belly, as if he wants to feel the muscles shifting under Patrick's skin while he rides Jonny - as if he wants to feel his fat cock pushing up, up through Patrick into his stomach. The thought makes Patrick's cock drip. "God, you feel so good," he says, sounding awed. 'So tight and perfect, and you look so fucking pretty - "

Patrick sobs, clenching up tight when Jonny gets his hand around his cock. It's too much stimulation, too overwhelming for his still-sensitive body, and when Jonny fists his dick with his thumb rolling over the head, his orgasm hits him so fast he's nearly taken by surprise. He cries out, body jerking while he rides it out, his hips working mindlessly as he fucks himself down on Jonny over and over through it.

"Fuck," Jonny says, "so _good_ \- " and he groans, loud and guttural, as he slams Patrick down hard on his cock and strains up into him, the veins in his neck popping as he empties himself. Patrick can _feel_ the way his cock swells up inside him when he comes, and his only regret is that he can't feel Jonny's come leak out of him when he collapses on top of Jonny and his cock slips out.

Other than that - he feels wonderful. He feels like his body's been put through some kind of punishing workout; he's wrung out and sore everywhere, his hole tender and empty and he knows he's going to be loose and open for hours, but fuck if he doesn't feel _amazing_ and thoroughly fucked and so, so satisfied.

"Jonny," he says, pushing himself up to look down at Jonny. The movement makes his lower back twinge, but he ignores it. Jonny gazes up at him; he's sweaty and his short hair is sticking up in clumps, and he hasn't even taken the condom off, but he's still the best sight Patrick's laid eyes on. It's something he'd thought for so long he could never see again, but now he has this, and he's going to have it for the rest of his life. "Jonny - I love you."

"I love you," Jonny replies. Again no hesitation, no need to even think, like it's an inescapable truth Jonny's been carrying around with him all the time. "I always will."

Patrick leans down to tuck his face into Jonny's neck and breathe him in. "Me too," he says.

He knows now that this was inevitable, that they've always been meant to find each other again and come back together; but whatever arcane forces out there were at work to make sure their destinies would intertwine once more now that they're both older and better, Patrick finds himself very, very grateful.

This is _their_ truth, he thinks.

He shuts his eyes and holds on tight to Jonny. He's not going to let go, not again.

\---

There's a thumping noise, and voices, and other terrible, noisy things going on that Patrick hears through his sleep like an underwater echo.

He rolls face down into the - surprisingly soft sheets, and tries to shut out the noise, except he _can't_. It gets too annoying to ignore eventually, and he pries his eyes open, wondering vaguely what time it is and why his fucking neighbours are making such a fucking din and -

He blinks, disoriented for a moment, because this isn't his bedroom. It's a large, luxuriously-fitted room with high ceilings and heavy, light-blocking drapes, and for a few seconds he wonders if he's actually still asleep and dreaming. But as more of his surroundings come into view, he suddenly remembers: Jonny. This is Jonny's guest bedroom. He rolls over onto his side, but the bed's empty and cold; Jonny's been up for a while then.

The memories of last night come flooding back and at first he thinks he maybe really dreamed it; but then he sits up and the twinge in his lower back, the tenderness in his hole, reminds him that okay, it definitely wasn't a dream. The thought of it puts a smile on his face, because - _Jonny_. He's back with Jonny again, where he belongs, and they're going to be able to start anew and put everything in the past behind them.

If only this racket would stop, though. Patrick doesn't know what's going on outside, but there are several voices he doesn't recognize, and some thumping and pounding sounds.

He looks over the side of the bed for his clothes, but they're gone. What the hell? He climbs out of bed, and that's when he notices, folded at the foot in squares on the messy white sheets, something that looks like a shirt and sweatpants. He shakes them out, and yeah - they're exactly that, except that they're obviously Jonny's.

Patrick pulls them on, feeling ridiculously happy to be swimming in Jonny's clothes again.

But when he opens the door and steps outside, he nearly walks headlong into a man who's carrying a large piece of what looks like black wood.

"Oh - sorry," Patrick says, blinking.

"My apologies, sir," the man says. He's wearing a t-shirt with the logo of the Palais Group on it, so he's clearly an employee of the hotel, but what he's doing in Jonny's penthouse, Patrick can't guess. There are other voices coming from the direction of Jonny's master bedroom too, and that's where a lot of the thumping is going on. The man disappears in the direction of the elevator, still holding that weird long piece of wood, or whatever it is.

"You're up," Jonny's voice says; Patrick swings around to see him coming from what he assumes is the kitchen, or dining room, or - whatever, Patrick was too busy last night with Jonny's body to really notice the layout of the penthouse anyway. But Jonny's smiling, and he bends to kiss Patrick sweetly on the lips, not caring that Patrick hasn't even brushed his teeth yet. "Are you hungry? I was waiting for you to get up before I ordered breakfast."

"What's going on, Jonny?" Patrick asks, looking in the direction of Jonny's bedroom. Another two men are coming out of it now, holding a heavy, thick - what looks like a headboard of a bed. A black leather headboard, like the one from Jonny's bed.

"Some men are coming in to dismantle the bed, that's all," Jonny says casually, like this is the world's most normal morning for him.

"To dismantle - what?"

"I called for some people to be sent up here to take the bed and mattress out and dispose of them. But the bed's too big to be moved as it is; they have to dismantle it first."

"I don't - what?" Patrick says dumbly.

Jonny arches an eyebrow at him. "Don't you remember? You didn't want to sleep in that bed last night, and I told you I'd get rid of it. I'll have a new bed moved in later, after this one's gone."

And - holy shit. Holy _shit_. Jonny is a crazy person. A _rich_ crazy person, who can apparently get such things done, in his hotel, with just a phone call.

"You're crazy," Patrick says; but he feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

"Is this okay?" Jonny asks, suddenly hesitant. "You said - "

Patrick tiptoes and kisses him quickly. "I know what I said," he says. "I just didn't expect you to act on it so quickly."

He's smiling at Jonny, his heart light and happy. What a difference growing up makes, he thinks to himself. Years ago, he wouldn't have known how to deal with Jonny and his money and power. Now - now it just makes him happy to know that Jonny's trying to please him.

Plus, it's not like he's sorry to see that bed go. He's going to christen the new bed with Jonny so hard later that it'll probably break and Jonny will have to get yet another new one.

"You're happy today," Jonny observes. His eyes are soft as he gazes at Patrick, and he reaches up to thumb at his dimple.

"I really, really am," Patrick assures him.

\---

**August 2021**

It's way past closing, but Patrick's got Kendrick Lamar playing on his iPad, and he's so deep in concentration on the gumpaste flowers he's etching veins into that he doesn't even hear the door to the kitchen open.

"Babe?" Jonny's voice says suddenly, very close behind him.

Patrick jumps with a shout; the petal veiner slips out of his grip and falls onto the stainless steel countertop with a loud clang. "Jesus!" he says, swinging round. His heart's thudding rapidly in his chest. "Holy fuck, you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?"

"It's past _midnight_ ," Jonny says gently.

"What - seriously?" Patrick says. He glances up at the clock on the kitchen wall and is shocked to see that it's ten minutes past midnight already.

"Yes, seriously," Jonny says. "And I called you several times and you never picked up, so I drove down to see if things were okay. What are you doing here so late?"

"You called - oh, shit," Patrick says, groping in his pockets for his phone, which isn't there. "God, I'm sorry. I must have left it in my office."

Jonny wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him close; he doesn't seem to notice or care that Patrick's got flour and icing sugar dusted up to his elbows, and his hands are sticky with gumpaste, and that there's petal dust in myriad shades staining the front of his apron. "Wanna tell me what's wrong?" he asks quietly.

Patrick's first instinct is to say _nothing_ and pull away and tell Jonny to go home while he continues working. But then he thinks of how, for the past month, he's been staying late nearly every night at the bakery; how he and Jonny haven't had a proper conversation in that time beyond wedding prep stuff; how Jonny actually had to drive down tonight because Patrick wasn't answering his calls; how his literal first thought, as a response to Jonny, was to tell him to _go home alone_. And worst of all is the way Jonny looks at him, forehead creased with worry, eyes tired but soft and a little anxious.

God. Patrick really is the world's worst fiancé.

"I - god, I'm sorry," he says. He has to shut his eyes for a moment and lean his forehead against Jonny's shoulder, and Jonny lets him, stroking a big, gentle hand down his back. It's repetitive and soothing and it helps to calm something jittery that's been rabbiting away inside of Patrick for weeks. "I'm the worst. I'm just, I don't know. Really stressed out about the cake."

"I told you to hand it over to Nick, right? You should be enjoying our wedding, not making our cake."

Patrick lifts his head long enough to fix Jonny with a glare. "It's _our_ wedding cake - do you really think I'd let anyone else touch it? No one's going to make a better one than I can."

He sees the corners of Jonny's mouth twitch upwards before Jonny can hold it back, and then he groans. "Oh, god. I've turned into one of those grooms I hate, haven't I?"

"A real bridezilla," Jonny agrees, looking like he's trying to hold back a laugh.

"I just _can't_ , Jonny," Patrick says. "I can't hand my cake over to someone else. I can't bring myself to do it."

"Sometimes you've got to pick your battles," Jonny says, pressing a kiss onto the top of his tousled curls. "We've got so much to do, sweetheart. You haven't completed your tuxedo fitting. You said you'd look at the calligraphy samples with me. Our wedding planners are waiting for us to look at and sign off on a thousand different things. Baby, you need to relax and hand the cake off to Nick and Alex."

"But I - " Patrick says helplessly, half-turning to look at the gumpaste flower petals on the counter, laid out neatly on large trays by colour gradation, ready for freezing.

"You know Nick can do it," Jonny says, stroking his cheek. "He's made hundreds of wedding cakes. You already let him do most of the wedding cakes that you're commissioned for because you barely have time! It'll still be _your_ design anyway, all he's doing is executing it, and you know he's good enough to do that."

"I know," Patrick whispers. "It's just - this is important to me, you know? This is - my livelihood, it's what I _do_ , and I really wanted to make our cake, with my own hands, for our wedding. God, sometimes I wish we hadn't like - decided to do the big wedding thing, invited all those guests. It's like there's this pressure on me now, to produce the best fucking cake I've ever done in my life."

Jonny stares at him, looking troubled and unhappy. "Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, holding Patrick close. "Why didn't you tell me you were under all this pressure? Or that you didn't want such a big wedding? You know I'd never have done it if you didn't want it."

"Because I _did_ want it too," Patrick says. "And it's just that now - I'm feeling kind of overwhelmed I guess? And stressed. I don't fucking know."

"Tell you what," Jonny says. "I can call the whole thing off. No, not our _marriage_ \- " he says quickly when Patrick stares at him in shock. "I just mean the wedding. We'll do it small, nothing big or fancy. We can just get married quietly, wherever and however you want. Whatever makes you happy. I'd get married to you in City Hall tomorrow with no one around, if that's what you want."

"Jonny," Patrick says. "We can't - we've sent out the invites, your resort in Hawaii's already preparing for the ceremony and reception and all the guests, you've already chartered flights to fly everyone out there - you can't just cancel all that."

"Oh, I can, easily," Jonny says. "Not even a big deal _at all_. If you're getting so stressed and unhappy, I'd rather cancel the whole thing, do a small, quiet ceremony."

Patrick has to press his face into Jonny's chest for a moment, because - fuck, how did he ever get so lucky. But he knows in his heart that this isn't really the, well, responsible thing to do. He needs to pull on his big boy pants, start prioritizing the right things.

"No," he says with a sigh. "We'll go ahead with the wedding - but you're right. I should - delegate. I'll let Nick and Alex handle the cake, and I'll just - oversee."

"Good," Jonny says, kissing him again. "And you're going to _only_ oversee, and by that you don't mean in the hands-on, do-it-yourself way, right?"

Despite himself, Patrick laughs. "I'll try my best, okay? And - I'm sorry I've been so focused on this and neglecting you. Neglecting _us_. And all my other wedding duties." He glances up at Jonny through his lashes, slanting a grin at him. "How about you let me wash up here, and then you can take me home and I can make up for some of that."

Jonny smiles. "Best idea I've heard in ages."

He helps Patrick to wrap the trays in cling wrap and put them into the walk-in freezer, and then wipes down the counters while Patrick scrubs the sticky gumpaste and flour-and-sugar mix off his arms. It's the sight of Jonny dragging a cloth over the countertops - Jonny who's never had to lift a finger to do anything for himself, who's had housekeepers and butlers and cleaning staff all his life, patiently cleaning up petal dust and sugar in Patrick's bakery - that really hits it home for Patrick: Jonny's going to marry him, and he loves Patrick, and really, _that's_ the important thing. Not the cake, not the wedding fuss and pomp - just Jonny.

Yeah, he really ought to take a break, show some appreciation for his amazing soon-to-be husband.

"Hey," he says. "Maybe tomorrow, I could take the day off? And not come into the bakery? And then you can take me through whatever's outstanding, and we can get all that done and hand it over to the wedding planners, so neither you nor I need to be stressing out about this anymore."

Jonny straightens up, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah. Sounds perfect to me."

"Good," Patrick says, smiling back at him. He pulls his dirty apron off and tosses it into the hamper under the sink, before walking to Jonny and slipping his hand into his back pocket just to tug him close, because he likes to feel Jonny against him. "Let me grab my phone and we can go."

"Oh, and you know what I just thought of?" Jonny adds. "Maybe the week before the wedding, I'll take you out to Hawaii first. No guests, no family, no one else. Just you and me. We'll spend the week in the resort relaxing and getting pampered before the wedding. You can have a million massages and all the mai-tais on the beach that you want. How's that sound?"

Patrick blinks. "You mean like a honeymoon? But I thought we were going to your private island near Greece for that, the month after our wedding."

"That's the _honeymoon_ ," Jonny says patiently. "This is a - pre-wedding-moon, whatever. Just go out there, both of us, and have that time off to decompress without anyone or anything else demanding our time, because I think you _really_ need that break. And then we're all recharged when we go through the ceremony and reception. What do you think?"

Patrick never feels comfortable leaving his bakery for longer than he needs to; but Jonny's right. He's got a fantastic staff, they can manage fine without him for a week before the bakery's closed for them to fly out for the wedding. And, well, it's not as if an extra week in Jonny's luxurious eco-resort in Hawaii is going to be a hardship. Being there with just Jonny and no one else around, with no demands on his time, sounds like heaven to Patrick right now.

"Uh, I think _yeah_ , obviously," he says, tipping his head up to look at Jonny. "Bring me out there and then marry the fuck out of me, babe."

"Yeah," Jonny murmurs; he kisses Patrick, soft and sweet, and Patrick wants to melt into his arms and preferably never let go. "I intend to."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://kanerboo.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> the fantastic art embedded in the fic was done with love by the amazing heartstrings/anotherrashley :D please head over to her tumblr to give the art some love [here](https://anotherashley.tumblr.com/post/181145272371/sugar-were-going-down-swinging-kanerboo-60k) and [here](https://anotherashley.tumblr.com/post/181129750646/sugar-were-going-down-swinging-kanerboo-for)!


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